tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76163406154606058802024-02-20T08:11:15.924-08:00zeitquestphillip larrimorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747987191464459195noreply@blogger.comBlogger155125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7616340615460605880.post-67667301304453655962022-09-22T17:12:00.000-07:002022-09-22T17:12:00.064-07:00A BRIEF TALK ABOUT MY WORK<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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How an image can change as the eye views it, what the viewer learns watching this change,is the chief concern of my work, though this takes many forms using many techniques.<br />
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<br />phillip larrimorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747987191464459195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7616340615460605880.post-58995913480709492082014-07-13T07:29:00.000-07:002014-07-21T11:00:56.322-07:00AWAKE AND WATCHING<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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One of the painter's favorite themes</div>
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a post-coital variation of the tableaux</div>
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of the artist and the model ,done by moonlight</div>
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<span style="text-align: left;"> the properties of the studio</span></div>
dishevelled by goatish sex.<br />
<br />
Light emanates from the figure<br />
of the Beloved, asleep and quite at peace.<br />
She does not stir except to fall<br />
further into a deep circle of calm<br />
which sheds a light in the room,<br />
who murmurs a name from afar<br />
in some bright field<br />
she moves in in her dream.<br />
<br />
The strangest land of snow<br />
however has captured him<br />
who stays awake inside the thought<br />
that time is not continuous<br />
but a vast palace with trapdoors<br />
and secret apartments<br />
in which he comes and goes,<br />
and loses her again<br />
forewarned by happiness<br />
and this same scene<br />
revisited time after time from then<br />
<br />
His own phantom there<br />
keeps vigil; he is vaguely aware<br />
of entering through a door<br />
from the future:<br />
this would account for<br />
the strength of the cliche<br />
of the sleeper shedding light<br />
and the dark watcher.<br />
<br />
( illustration from Picasso's Vollard Suite/1936)<br />
.phillip larrimorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747987191464459195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7616340615460605880.post-39941405042055014862014-05-19T04:47:00.000-07:002014-05-19T04:47:31.175-07:00A NEW PARNASSUS<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7uV_XRexByHO8BuxqcIBVsJu6C9_B-pd01uWmQj_qBkp0jm-YR1DKN37FZjSxo6tA-ceY2lMPCSbqvqeAXKOCCMarOAXvTbENNU-2Obbww0M0SCCX8r2S2bo30DCSoFcZzBurrxvh86U/s1600/Original-head-of-Caligula.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7uV_XRexByHO8BuxqcIBVsJu6C9_B-pd01uWmQj_qBkp0jm-YR1DKN37FZjSxo6tA-ceY2lMPCSbqvqeAXKOCCMarOAXvTbENNU-2Obbww0M0SCCX8r2S2bo30DCSoFcZzBurrxvh86U/s1600/Original-head-of-Caligula.jpg" height="320" width="234" /></a></div>
Far from Palantine Hill<br />
where eventually it will be re-instated,<br />
this statue of Apollo for the present<br />
lies prone in Hermippos' workshop.<br />
Derricks and a broad-wheeled cart<br />
drawn by six horses were required to haul it,<br />
it was a feat of engineering.<br />
to tilt it onto its straw bed<br />
Now the surgery can begin<br />
after prayers that no hidden vein in the marble<br />
will cause a fracture<br />
at the incision around the neck.<br />
Then, if skill and calculation<br />
are rewarded with luck,<br />
the ponderous head will fall,<br />
to be replaced by another:<br />
the portrait bust , already prepared, of Gaius<br />
affectionately known as Caligula.<br />
To whom the senate accords divine status<br />
by an unanimous vote,<br />
offering this statue as tribute<br />
in the hope of a new Parnassus.phillip larrimorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747987191464459195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7616340615460605880.post-66291618489784377282014-05-15T17:20:00.000-07:002014-05-15T17:20:14.143-07:00ON VISUAL COUNTERPOINT:PICTOGRAM DRAWINGS<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsIgcPYMXz70VuSzc1560XpHFgO2AMvQrzzU9DHwWIRPB6ZqSVS3jGZ0QwqJ5gd30LEwTlI82WuvaBaTMjnFxB8-_1b0UIuTQo5GTwHsSERUNsg5edXBp_Oq8-79uQXGsiGv1_h64JVqg/s1600/Pictures+12+003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsIgcPYMXz70VuSzc1560XpHFgO2AMvQrzzU9DHwWIRPB6ZqSVS3jGZ0QwqJ5gd30LEwTlI82WuvaBaTMjnFxB8-_1b0UIuTQo5GTwHsSERUNsg5edXBp_Oq8-79uQXGsiGv1_h64JVqg/s1600/Pictures+12+003.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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One of my on-going preoccupations is how to make an image--or images which are visual equivalents to</div>
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musical counterpoint. Obviously, there is no actual equivalent. Even musical notion is in some sense a metaphor for what is heard. Never-the-less, it stimulates me to attempt a visual metaphor for a fugue from THE ART OF THE FUGUE, as it did for painters as different as Braque and Klee before me. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyIff2Pvly7lnvAeNplZS95Wx3GwnWRZFHUF-OKTb2xAvWtMAeP8nGJ6TO3x_WDjwVqzNIajxLj10I-tJpwzODIEwcYHADZ69W6Kx362RFqqd37Yd8G_du1aWbYvbRbZbrly_Rqyx-i1w/s1600/Pictures+13+001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyIff2Pvly7lnvAeNplZS95Wx3GwnWRZFHUF-OKTb2xAvWtMAeP8nGJ6TO3x_WDjwVqzNIajxLj10I-tJpwzODIEwcYHADZ69W6Kx362RFqqd37Yd8G_du1aWbYvbRbZbrly_Rqyx-i1w/s1600/Pictures+13+001.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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My paintings on layers of aluminum screen were conceived with this in mind. They also were simultaneously enquiries into the means of depicting of motion.. Much, much later, it occurred to me that I might "transistorize" this problem in a different way on paper. Hence these drawings. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-PBOnP1hQKpYtF5srIh43vjsk1AmGevD3Hvig6CS8FNfYi4j1tY_51Q_5YeyhTwaN82gftXrMPQRtoRm84Rz7f-VA2C6MXuN51TMeWB6EbcMs4-EFV7MLy__kEXUWRdUaHBPMn4K5_uw/s1600/Pictures+13+006.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-PBOnP1hQKpYtF5srIh43vjsk1AmGevD3Hvig6CS8FNfYi4j1tY_51Q_5YeyhTwaN82gftXrMPQRtoRm84Rz7f-VA2C6MXuN51TMeWB6EbcMs4-EFV7MLy__kEXUWRdUaHBPMn4K5_uw/s1600/Pictures+13+006.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
They began as pictograms on grids. This would be layer one. Over these larger figures were drawn. This would be layer two. The addition of color --mostly on the grid pictograms but occasionally over as another<br />
composition entirely--would act as the third contrapuntal " line". In many cases the "pictograms" in the "grids" are reversed or altered in some significant way.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Tnsun_mljyl6ElzO_qk2vieSfJ7UcQ__QLkuWT5NXsaRmpGRHUc89KIJye8Zlynjp0KaFnLGNAtsy5UGb0P8ckNSEGUFTstEYeCp-vMC0NgogDGPluUScJtu03iwduYbYX3hvufYAJA/s1600/Pictures+13+016.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Tnsun_mljyl6ElzO_qk2vieSfJ7UcQ__QLkuWT5NXsaRmpGRHUc89KIJye8Zlynjp0KaFnLGNAtsy5UGb0P8ckNSEGUFTstEYeCp-vMC0NgogDGPluUScJtu03iwduYbYX3hvufYAJA/s1600/Pictures+13+016.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
A grid will consist of eighty eight to a hundred pictograms. The second layer of larger pictograms will<br />
range from thirty two to forty images.The viewer therefore will be seeing the former through the latter, the grid images through the larger. It creates a kind of idioretinal shimmer.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-gvvLT6NVjLnOZsUlwtWWkf6bv6c5IctgjqHrYNTmzQaGSnpnfTYtGfB2avIVZ8mtIv4SDuFV97inLxeous4ULeZQUHooqepDfMAbnMfk1cUPoV6Jhmy1XS3wcAkktY5VvIlUEI4_GCs/s1600/Pictures+15+031.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-gvvLT6NVjLnOZsUlwtWWkf6bv6c5IctgjqHrYNTmzQaGSnpnfTYtGfB2avIVZ8mtIv4SDuFV97inLxeous4ULeZQUHooqepDfMAbnMfk1cUPoV6Jhmy1XS3wcAkktY5VvIlUEI4_GCs/s1600/Pictures+15+031.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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In some cases I have done four layers of drawing images, of which this is one.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicsXfVmE_GJCpKFZmSZTtPqInHBWnFEmXk8a6SnpbwKDc5S5GaEF0-UhIKGCcWwpmdIqh_5arENecpTOBzJg3GLYSkxIsy0dch150m5ofucH2xhgnTtcFseXmKs4Kahlyj9aUJuxZzJkc/s1600/Pictures+13+017.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicsXfVmE_GJCpKFZmSZTtPqInHBWnFEmXk8a6SnpbwKDc5S5GaEF0-UhIKGCcWwpmdIqh_5arENecpTOBzJg3GLYSkxIsy0dch150m5ofucH2xhgnTtcFseXmKs4Kahlyj9aUJuxZzJkc/s1600/Pictures+13+017.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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Or used color "kaleidoscopically", to imply a fourth layer, as here.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqbAKT1GsnwvSM_5WCzRnUoEoCtWvpmyVk0OjNpgJaBbKmWqna92J606N55cZqPKSq42lUgowzTIqUsNTm__WJLR4uLkxINPFm2cem39TIDF2Szrpujom5VWs_hmM_i4KS9IbT6YUorvw/s1600/Pictures+13+024.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqbAKT1GsnwvSM_5WCzRnUoEoCtWvpmyVk0OjNpgJaBbKmWqna92J606N55cZqPKSq42lUgowzTIqUsNTm__WJLR4uLkxINPFm2cem39TIDF2Szrpujom5VWs_hmM_i4KS9IbT6YUorvw/s1600/Pictures+13+024.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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This, and the drawing below, attempt to impose a "chordal" structure over the first and second series of pictographic images. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaLdX6pFp_CidM20L8bn0Zbck0NarmEoVksMyMAxI4G90UNnLJKprKWWmWuSDZO6YK7fqMadGOkFWrWpkjvLBXhUVA1OY51f4zsObFPwO_FcNBAfi-AoMxfLrl7WWmA6QxkAJaZfZMvAI/s1600/Pictures+14+011.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaLdX6pFp_CidM20L8bn0Zbck0NarmEoVksMyMAxI4G90UNnLJKprKWWmWuSDZO6YK7fqMadGOkFWrWpkjvLBXhUVA1OY51f4zsObFPwO_FcNBAfi-AoMxfLrl7WWmA6QxkAJaZfZMvAI/s1600/Pictures+14+011.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHotENwR2AxLcQEnE6Ysunh4T-Ptkjx-fF48l2NELbeSmPxafzId-tbqhkFCmeTSK1xsD4Sz08F0EI15L6Mz0TBtlgIXFhXi_ftUafK4oVsKCYaub08OBKPKTqc-iAFSCbkx_d8qnI7N4/s1600/Pictures+15+026.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHotENwR2AxLcQEnE6Ysunh4T-Ptkjx-fF48l2NELbeSmPxafzId-tbqhkFCmeTSK1xsD4Sz08F0EI15L6Mz0TBtlgIXFhXi_ftUafK4oVsKCYaub08OBKPKTqc-iAFSCbkx_d8qnI7N4/s1600/Pictures+15+026.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1znvMZZ7yEuYiPn15aNp40VJ3ad80edFzRfSEEgOf3EJ1Olq3-_VwaL-afBlY7-QKO6mn6ElmA0sBVqAoa_G8v2O5HGIZ7Gyx77kxOrOK0T8qtlBsrcAEcCDgwRJx2LRc4P2eX1bMgeE/s1600/Pictures+15+008.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1znvMZZ7yEuYiPn15aNp40VJ3ad80edFzRfSEEgOf3EJ1Olq3-_VwaL-afBlY7-QKO6mn6ElmA0sBVqAoa_G8v2O5HGIZ7Gyx77kxOrOK0T8qtlBsrcAEcCDgwRJx2LRc4P2eX1bMgeE/s1600/Pictures+15+008.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcwaS7z7K6VI8Nhg02vDCD8BQuAvBTjIFYWVZEhalc85jFpg8GQmkPP82h7FehEMV3IpsQRsz2ELcfOc-g95gEuakqP7LTb5YVeVZIrd5EbmqL5Ey8_dt5kP2_NSIwI3O-Bq-fvDYTdQE/s1600/Pictures+13+027.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcwaS7z7K6VI8Nhg02vDCD8BQuAvBTjIFYWVZEhalc85jFpg8GQmkPP82h7FehEMV3IpsQRsz2ELcfOc-g95gEuakqP7LTb5YVeVZIrd5EbmqL5Ey8_dt5kP2_NSIwI3O-Bq-fvDYTdQE/s1600/Pictures+13+027.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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I must add that these are studies for much larger outdoor pieces. Also, that--in addition to western counterpoint, they also reflect my interest in polychrome Islamic prayer niches, and Oscar Niemeyer's. quasi Aztec quasi Mayan mosaics in Brasilia. But a work of art does not come from one place, but many, and may be said to be a matter of convergence as much as of essence. Or so I think today. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVDkdOWN0UNk_FUQHQkc8d9G68JM5R1dB0GxiwjEpLInOtoA_oX5d2iiuQaFtBLDp-rHxUUav6tRnToye3xIw-50LHr3C2BbD0_mQ25P1GsAK4ReoJ_6cemKUF58pUQKSQwpwqTnmH-JM/s1600/Pictures+32+038.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVDkdOWN0UNk_FUQHQkc8d9G68JM5R1dB0GxiwjEpLInOtoA_oX5d2iiuQaFtBLDp-rHxUUav6tRnToye3xIw-50LHr3C2BbD0_mQ25P1GsAK4ReoJ_6cemKUF58pUQKSQwpwqTnmH-JM/s1600/Pictures+32+038.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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(these drawings were done in the summer of 2012)</div>
phillip larrimorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747987191464459195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7616340615460605880.post-23165339368098594322014-05-13T07:01:00.000-07:002014-05-21T05:55:20.557-07:00TOWARDS THE GATES OF DIS<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAOK18W_1sgQuS99GGr9p3eZqSEDmdzmTfFwi-hd40XmCKgO9UPPbxTw6sXOBL7gGFVYXoVOWWgZ5V-ysDRpTOqhlFSN1PrY-58zFpEC-ntSywlQDlZ1gkHJJDIUBX6rtg8U7dAdEbsYg/s1600/Pictures+2+049.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAOK18W_1sgQuS99GGr9p3eZqSEDmdzmTfFwi-hd40XmCKgO9UPPbxTw6sXOBL7gGFVYXoVOWWgZ5V-ysDRpTOqhlFSN1PrY-58zFpEC-ntSywlQDlZ1gkHJJDIUBX6rtg8U7dAdEbsYg/s1600/Pictures+2+049.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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What I wondered was how your flower<br />
might be recognized among the others<br />
in Elysium towards the gates of Dis.<br />
The light was pale,<br />
compounding dawn and twilight,<br />
a haze made immaterial<br />
the hillside banked with myrtle and oxalis.<br />
A stream ran there,<br />
thin tributary to Lethe<br />
forbidden to the living to drink.<br />
I knew I'd never find you if I tarried<br />
but searched the windless banks beside the stream.<br />
There, at a meander,<br />
grew a leafless tree and beside it<br />
the rosebush half submerged in bramble.<br />
Such a sense of hindrance<br />
under the heavy sunlight slowed my progress<br />
that I wondered if I'd ever reach my goal.<br />
Do not pluck me<br />
said the rose upon the rosebush<br />
What you see is not a guidepost for the living<br />
but a memory awaiting a second death<br />
Let me put my root downwards into Lethe<br />
in Elysium towards the gates of Dis.<br />
A wind began to blow.<br />
I watched as the last petals<br />
fell away; some scattered downstream.<br />
Euridice is not retrieved to daylight, and Isaac<br />
is sacrificed time and again.phillip larrimorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747987191464459195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7616340615460605880.post-40585038925118137762014-05-05T18:21:00.000-07:002014-05-05T18:21:17.345-07:00FOUR BLACK KEY ETUDES<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfuTevcCQt90lqfxTmaA-cAxKYOAXUEEy294hieD52BtJctby7dCKub9stJXwutV6fqvpdnaFdrNb-R9wHpGRVlbXHkYUWZOpbyxN4ED-tv2H2g_-XcIlPAkdu9VZYxP1_m_JfrI93vB0/s1600/paintings+on+glass+188.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfuTevcCQt90lqfxTmaA-cAxKYOAXUEEy294hieD52BtJctby7dCKub9stJXwutV6fqvpdnaFdrNb-R9wHpGRVlbXHkYUWZOpbyxN4ED-tv2H2g_-XcIlPAkdu9VZYxP1_m_JfrI93vB0/s1600/paintings+on+glass+188.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
These studies were done before the "Baroque Mirror" and the "Black Window" on order to see test the compositional use of lace. I was very enamored with flat black versus gloss white, so I saturated masonite with black gesso, and sprayed white gloss enamel through lace upon it; then I painted over this again. In the first I used an emerald green sign painter's enamel.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgovYQ9PoWqEj78HU0Wjd2E7I8YzpbelNgyd1Sva9IzohJkqD3Ipzc-yogosRpTFDxjbW91YkJcTck6nTOM6rNDWIBHjndoy87DY1LMzruivGIDaT5WeqfhPTkwMJkzmBsQn0CCjN9KdK4/s1600/paintings+on+glass+191.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgovYQ9PoWqEj78HU0Wjd2E7I8YzpbelNgyd1Sva9IzohJkqD3Ipzc-yogosRpTFDxjbW91YkJcTck6nTOM6rNDWIBHjndoy87DY1LMzruivGIDaT5WeqfhPTkwMJkzmBsQn0CCjN9KdK4/s1600/paintings+on+glass+191.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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In the second, I retouched the image with gloss black enamel.</div>
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In the third , I sprayed gloss black over gloss white.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIPW2hNW0UC9GSn5YtjU8X2jgSAT6E1VDrVROX2kmxonGA4_cI2vFzWr-UigJtwiYPQjvknq80vQYEUsvIpV9WAo2FhwDKhcYoahz3me_6Xa8t9g8dJpMhczbLi5VvV0j_nSNtxavzEWQ/s1600/paintings+on+glass+195.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIPW2hNW0UC9GSn5YtjU8X2jgSAT6E1VDrVROX2kmxonGA4_cI2vFzWr-UigJtwiYPQjvknq80vQYEUsvIpV9WAo2FhwDKhcYoahz3me_6Xa8t9g8dJpMhczbLi5VvV0j_nSNtxavzEWQ/s1600/paintings+on+glass+195.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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The final study employed a calligraphic brush stroke in brilliant blue enamel over gloss white and gloss black. </div>
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I was aiming for the effect of an after-image, or a photographic negative, or a ghost.(1994)</div>
<br />phillip larrimorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747987191464459195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7616340615460605880.post-86273075131369285042014-05-01T05:02:00.000-07:002014-08-10T06:42:26.733-07:00A MIRHAB OF PICTOGRAMS<b><i><strike></strike></i></b><br />
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What I hoped to achieve with these small pieces was an</div>
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infinite shimmer between "letters of the alphabet" and the "text", much as calligraphy and pattern blur together in an Islamic Mirhab, or Prayer Niche. . Originally, I wanted to make these into a scroll from left to right but it occurred to me that a similar effect might be done from up to down, as is done on this page. Most of these were done in the winter of 2009--2010, but I tossed out more now and then. At one time I went through a Kufic calligraphy derived period, at another something quasi-Aztec. They were begun as a divertissement and then I became fascinating with the notion that no two pictograms or any page of drawings might be the same.</div>
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(I would like to obliterate the margins which blogger puts between these images, so that one drawing might blend into another but alas this can not be done)</div>
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Originally, they were meant as a kind of memory of the dance floor at the Paradise Garage, and the use of pictograms as a nod to the late Keith Haring, who I often saw there. There was also a sense of biding adieu to the "lovers of the dance floor"--those charged semi-encounters with perfect strangers known and not known.There was also that sense of the variety of humanity, the belief that each human note has a purpose in the larger whole--it would come over me often in the subway, of all places.</div>
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I also recall a moment in the midst of a bicycle marathon involving ten thousand people which I participated in--the cyclists suddenly seemed synathestically identified for me as the G major Brandenburg concerto, in a celestial/terrestial dance with God.. Consequently, each pictogram was done as a prayer for all sentient beings.( I am not at all sure of the efficacy of such prayers except to say that is is harder to lose one's temper in traffic while repeating them than not,and that this may be little but it is something ) </div>
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Mainly,however, I wished to give the oriflammes, sylphs, and salamanders which appear in my earlier drawings a rest. The upshot is that the pictograms underwent a number of permutations, of which these are among the earliest types. They were however preceded by a large group of drawings using pictograms on grids. </div>
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There are twenty individual drawings on this page. The actual size of each drawing is 6" x 8 "/ there are between 300 and 350 pictograms per page, which means there are</div>
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6,000 pictograms on this page by the most conservative estimate; I have done not quite two hundred of these drawings.</div>
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<br />phillip larrimorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747987191464459195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7616340615460605880.post-64009515525345139102014-04-22T16:27:00.002-07:002014-04-22T16:29:28.080-07:00 A VIEW OF THE PONDI would like to record accurately for once a view I see every day. <br />
It is the tree-shaded lawn leading to what is too large to be called<br />
a pond and too small to be called a lake, where my grandpa watered<br />
his cows when this land was part of a farm thirty years past.<br />
Now across the field which borders us on three sides is a development,<br />
shady and not at all raw, for which I am glad. A hedgerow follows<br />
the length of the gravel road leading to the house which my father<br />
and brothers built almost as a jeux d'esprit on the concrete<br />
foundations of an old barn. The house is peculiar, improvised,<br />
homely and large, but pretty,too, I find, driving down the long<br />
road to it, surrounded as it is with mimosas, crepe myrtles,<br />
and great oaks, nestled in a concavity of a slope at the edge<br />
of a field, with a remnant half acre of of woods at one edge<br />
next to the pond, itself surrounded by old maples<br />
<br />
But this is not the scene that I wish to depict. It is the<br />
view from the house across the lawn with its oaks to the<br />
pond surrounded by maples and an occasional white birch<br />
that I am trying to see. I am seated on my couch in<br />
my studio in the upper floor of the house. Just below<br />
my window is the upper floor studio variation of this view but my<br />
back is turned to it to test my memory on something nearby.<br />
What interferes is the composite image of days and nights.<br />
<br />
My ideal "platonic" view is not of this hour--it is<br />
barely afternoon--but at dusk, at a time during sunset and<br />
its aftermath, on one of those days which occur each season<br />
when the ordinary merges without transition into the<br />
spectacular, when pure cerulean meets moulten gold<br />
and then is subsumed in a thousand slow shades.<br />
<br />
There is a Rubens which depicts the sun at dawn seen through<br />
the fretwork of a forest in which the sun is a stroke of<br />
raw titanium white. I get the opposite each night, the sun<br />
rolling under a forest which seems to store a residue of<br />
light in coral pink and gold streaked umber. The pond,<br />
furthermore, reflects light long after the source is gone, as if<br />
the vestigial light has learned the secret of a half-life or<br />
a life hereafter.<br />
<br />
The shadows of the oaks are emerald becoming cobalt blue,<br />
then a black which is a distillation of the green, a kind<br />
of lacquer. But where the rural streetlight shines,<br />
cast through shadowed leaves, the lawn is chartreuse,<br />
almost phosphorescent, as if the yellows on a palette<br />
have been incompletely mixed with blue and have not<br />
become what they would.<br />
<br />
Each blade of grass bristles with this artificial<br />
nocturnal color. They are almost too pointedly<br />
detailed in contrast with the blue black of the<br />
shadows..<br />
<br />
The pond, meanwhile, has tried on every scale of the<br />
opal. The sunset has illumined in flemish detail first one<br />
patch then another of the woods, as if they are being scanned<br />
and developed before one's eyes to then emerge en masse<br />
with the silhouettes of trunks, branches, leaves, dark but<br />
still distinct.<br />
<br />
If it is July or August, then the intolerable torpor of a long<br />
hot afternoon begins to subside, or better still, to gather<br />
into a storm. The fireflies are out,electrical, and flash out<br />
intermittently, now and again in sequence, so it seems,<br />
or more rarely in unison .The leaves begin to stir and the<br />
oaks to sway. The sky is sullen, and darkens with<br />
a look unlike nightfall, more like wrath. A rogue wind<br />
rises and spirals, clockwise or counterclockwise, it<br />
doesn't matter. It is meant to agitate the roses,<br />
as if to say, the vegetative life is not enough, there<br />
is anarchy to be had.The exaltation of a mob smashing<br />
windows .<br />
<br />
It is then the first bolt of lightning flashes, and the scene<br />
is printed in negative for a second, and again in intervals<br />
impossible to predict, as the thunder roils , or cracks<br />
so viscerally it might be the nearest tree executed<br />
via electrocution, too close for comfort.<br />
<br />
I am on a swing, who likes the moment when the rain falls<br />
like a vertical curtain, and if I am struck dead this would be<br />
just, even characteristic. But this does not occur though<br />
the downpour is as fierce a force as one could ask for,<br />
dispersing lassitude in a sudden flood which enlivens the<br />
heart.<br />
<br />
How long this lasts is variable, but gradually a<br />
diminuendo effect occurs as the storm passes over<br />
or vents itself. We are still streaked with lightning, true,<br />
but with wisps of lightning compared with the Jovian<br />
bolts that began.<br />
<br />
I know that it is done when the bullfrogs surface.<br />
A serenade for bassoons in the new cool. The<br />
fish are also curious. An adventurous flop into<br />
midair and out can be heard, perhaps to measure<br />
the wider breadth, the one or two inches the down<br />
pour has added to the pond.<br />
<br />
As for me, I can not say why but I am more aware<br />
after such a storm of the surrounding life, the turtles in<br />
the slime, the snake in the grass, the tribe of<br />
rabbits reconnoitering the vegetable garden,<br />
alas, fenced in. I can feel the mice in the field where<br />
hay is grown, and the surveillance of the owl,<br />
which is keen. I am aware, also, of trucks on<br />
the highway,and the road, and of the little town asleep,<br />
and another hundred little towns asleep on the road.<br />
Of houses with porches with rocking chairs on them,<br />
and family graveyards in a corner of a field,<br />
of rural churches, and service stations closed for<br />
the night lit by a neon sign, and of travellers in<br />
bus stations sleeping on a hard wooden bench or drinking<br />
a cup of bad coffee as they wait for the bus<br />
to Knoxville, or Memphis, or far beyond.<br />
<br />
(from a journal of 1997)<br />
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phillip larrimorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747987191464459195noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7616340615460605880.post-35187971299991298062014-04-17T04:40:00.000-07:002014-04-17T04:47:15.774-07:00THE YEAR ZERO<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The Year Zero was done in 2007 as a study for the set of the crucifixion section of a<br />
performance of the Bach Johannes Passion. It is based on photographs of the ossuaries<br />
of the remains of those dead at the hands of the Khymer Rouge. In one of the photographs that<br />
I worked from, there are three small children looking over a fence into the pen<br />
where these bones lie. I have sometimes wondered what they thought..<br />
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The choice of such subject matter was prompted by the New Testament description of<br />
Cavalry as a "gehenna" or Hell, the place of the crucifixion being described as shaped<br />
like a skull. (And, indeed, the vernacular Phillips translation describes it as "Skull Hill").<br />
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On a deeper level, I wanted to interrogate my own relationship to atrocity.</div>
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In my youth, I had broached near anorexia over the course of my twenty-fourth and twenty fifth years ,</div>
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trying to comes to terms with my incomprehension of the Nazi death camps. My sense of ethical incongruity</div>
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was severe enough that I gradually started starving myself, and indeed starvation became a kind of addiction, with addiction's downward pull to oblivion. The Well Tempered Clavier of Bach was one of the things that aroused me from this state, and years later I felt that I might brave my questions again in Bach's trusted company.</div>
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It was a perilous enterprise, I now see in retrospect. The painting is done of four different layers of screening, </div>
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with the skulls on the horizon started first, the skulls in the more remote mid ground added to them, the skulls in the forward mid ground added to them, and the skulls on the foreground added to them. In brief, I found myself orchestrating a sea of skulls. </div>
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What was distressing was how each skull on inspection became a missing personality, whose life had come to a foul end. </div>
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What was different from the horror of my youth was the horror of adulthood, or a growing sense of complicity with these terrible deeds. I have never murdered anyone in actuality, but often in my heart. Somehow, though this is impossible to demonstrate, I feel sure that this is my part in abetting</div>
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atrocity. </div>
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Certainly, this came home to me while painting this painting, and I wept often doing it, which is unusual for me.</div>
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The intense migrainous sensation of doing it is also something I recall, though this now seems serio-comical.</div>
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Throughout the process my cranial-fissures were felt keenly, like tectonic plates migrating grindingly apart.</div>
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And when, in a moment of discovering a way of rendering the skulls more rounded---an instance of technique losing its relationship to the subject matter--I plunged my brush into the paint can of vermillion, and accidentally cracked the brush- handle. </div>
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This jolted me from my moment of aesthetic pleasure, and I recalled how the first photographic documentarians of Auschwitz found themselves composing shots to distance themselves from the "subject matter".</div>
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I am entirely unconvinced, for that reason, that one might claim that art can act as testimony to atrocity. The instances</div>
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where it is an expression of vehement indignation seem to me to be almost an unintentional disclaimer on the part of the artist,as if to say, in this I am an innocent.And as an innocent, I accuse you. But to speak of myself alone, I am not an innocent in my heart , and this knowledge extends the questions I may put to history or another people to the questions I must put to my own heart. In the matter of atrocity, I must also stand among the accused if I wish to change myself. Sorrow is another matter. And in sorrow and contrition, I may find some connection with humanity.</div>
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(The Year Zero; 2007)</div>
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phillip larrimorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747987191464459195noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7616340615460605880.post-71291818814114499092014-04-16T04:08:00.003-07:002014-04-16T04:08:54.888-07:00A MISSING PAGEPeriodically,fate--or some distorted reflection of Providence-- serves up a mansion to me.<br />
It is always huge, and I am always welcomed as a honored guest. This should make me<br />
'happy, but whether the mansion is owned by a Baroness, or Sufis, or a Hollywood<br />
producer with some connection to "revolutionaries" or Cyber-punks, it is always<br />
'inhabited by zanies.<br />
<br />
If deja vu is merely the body's recollection of a certain texture--say, a sidewalk--<br />
or a rhythm--such as the rhythm of sitting shotgun in an automobile up a bend<br />
of the road at a certain grade, one might naturally wonder, even so, for<br />
the mansion is always located up a certain bend in the road at a certain grade as<br />
the previous mansions. There is always the green velvet presence of Italian<br />
cyprus and blue firs en route. The gateway--approached at the twilight hour--<br />
the door--tudor or medieval--and the mansion only appears after a period<br />
of voluntary solitude, the soul's necessity.<br />
<br />
That it represents twin wishes--the desire for the magic circle, the temptation<br />
of a group identity--has grown increasingly apparent. I remember "the Winter<br />
Palace", the Baronesses' spread in Santa Fe, the Sheikh's American digs..<br />
mullioned and bevelled, the carpets thick.There is, despite marked differences<br />
in the locales a certain note of the salon, something fin de sciele<br />
and trop Lalique about each of them. But perhaps this reflects nothing<br />
more than a taste for the etiolated among rich intellectuals.<br />
<br />
And this may be why they like me.<br />
<br />
(1992?)phillip larrimorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747987191464459195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7616340615460605880.post-6085905291736927392014-04-10T04:53:00.000-07:002014-04-10T04:53:36.750-07:00 GEOMETRICAL DOUBLE MIRRORSIn 1996-7, I did a number of geometrical paintings on two mirrors facing each other at forty-five degree<br />
angles. <br />
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These were meant to be studies, but as is my weird wont, they got deeper than my initial<br />
intentions. The very first of these is this black piece. It is primitive--I "drew" with tape,<br />
then painted, then painted on top of the painting. It was meant to be a corner piece, and<br />
it seems to take a piece out of the room and put it somewhere else.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE-Ly7Wp8x_lhMW3JCc6oUV52UPoBhrZ2x4rCx_J6smVVkwae2mfcTcXrBof7hGct7rxhprK5THy2IFL9EnzOigyzOZOEW-7hP6gixHylieEK1c7IeYNtC3vdTmDY4QSmZDfIwF4yCbBs/s1600/paintings+on+mirror+144.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE-Ly7Wp8x_lhMW3JCc6oUV52UPoBhrZ2x4rCx_J6smVVkwae2mfcTcXrBof7hGct7rxhprK5THy2IFL9EnzOigyzOZOEW-7hP6gixHylieEK1c7IeYNtC3vdTmDY4QSmZDfIwF4yCbBs/s1600/paintings+on+mirror+144.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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The later paintings in this series were painted first with a brilliant yellow or orange undercoat, which can be seen when light hits the mirrors at a certain angle; it gives them a peculiar glow. I did about twenty one of these over a summer, but they proved mortal beyond belief, and only ten have survived ntact-- a gale detached a door in a storage unit, destroying a number of them. Viewing the wreckage I had the sense of a clean hollow at my center--but there is nothing to do but pick up the pieces, and sigh to the night, and wake with a new resolve at dawn.</div>
phillip larrimorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747987191464459195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7616340615460605880.post-72719755951219560042014-04-09T04:51:00.000-07:002014-04-09T04:51:17.821-07:00A CLAY POTA CLAY POT<br />
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When you took me dripping from the vat<br />
what I felt was not birth pangs, rather<br />
a sullen sense of becoming particular,<br />
a lump with a weight but not a shape<br />
at another remove from Mother Earth<br />
<br />
Sat on a wheel and stared at<br />
I could not look back,<br />
but suddenly subjected to inertia---<br />
centrifugal?centripedal?--<br />
(who could be sure?)<br />
under the pressure of hands<br />
I could do nothing but comply<br />
leaving nature<br />
to enter history, as it were,<br />
a bit of identity<br />
out for a spin<br />
<br />
O revolution! A space<br />
began to hollow out<br />
where my center once was,<br />
and then a mouth,<br />
a base due south,<br />
and far north<br />
of finger corrugated walls<br />
made smooth by palms<br />
a lip<br />
<br />
What I would be--<br />
elongated vase or<br />
bosomed amphora<br />
or cookie jar---<br />
I scarcely had time<br />
to wonder;<br />
if I'd be slim or stout,<br />
crowned with a top<br />
or given handles<br />
though a matter of concern<br />
was quite outside my control<br />
dizzy as I was<br />
<br />
Very well, then, I thought,<br />
I'm done;at last<br />
that infernal<br />
whirling's over:<br />
what's this?<br />
an unguent is spread upon<br />
the form I am<br />
and seeps<br />
into my pores<br />
<br />
And on a tray<br />
with barely recognized<br />
cousins? siblings?<br />
I pass through a curtain of fire<br />
where an angel stands guard<br />
who will not release me<br />
from the blaze<br />
until the will<br />
of the hand is fast.<br />
<br />
(Dec.10 1996)phillip larrimorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747987191464459195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7616340615460605880.post-22605513463476569232014-04-07T06:36:00.000-07:002014-04-07T06:36:22.155-07:00A BAROQUE MIRROR (1995)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjtAlbQehS-lm1_xHxJGrDatEZYh2rYTLMJGFeYyU8mAZH5xUMoGZfc3fk_iCpahV3ovGqdV75Ts_fQTTIXn7vJVAoRejN-ASuXBM3Ctc7-439Vz8fPOCFWpe4Ar7bQCFpuoMNjZg8i4g/s1600/baroque+mirror+007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjtAlbQehS-lm1_xHxJGrDatEZYh2rYTLMJGFeYyU8mAZH5xUMoGZfc3fk_iCpahV3ovGqdV75Ts_fQTTIXn7vJVAoRejN-ASuXBM3Ctc7-439Vz8fPOCFWpe4Ar7bQCFpuoMNjZg8i4g/s1600/baroque+mirror+007.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
I seem chronically unable to make work which can be straightforwardly reproduced.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfzPDsy-6XReB2Nb76gteEvIL1UQh5FJCQ-9OP-h5Xiv7eDkGQe9bxBanrcjuStmTS_5nWOBKuButrBEAoYuos25ygmGJ_TsjUs-u2Wcz-DljRGie7vkvCEwJQqgv3hedozXNXOB3YWMM/s1600/baroque+mirror+008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfzPDsy-6XReB2Nb76gteEvIL1UQh5FJCQ-9OP-h5Xiv7eDkGQe9bxBanrcjuStmTS_5nWOBKuButrBEAoYuos25ygmGJ_TsjUs-u2Wcz-DljRGie7vkvCEwJQqgv3hedozXNXOB3YWMM/s1600/baroque+mirror+008.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
This " baroque mirror" from 1995 will serve as an example. It is meant to be a work in which the viewer<br />
appears--but not the photographer. He is someone I would gladly eliminate entirely, but it is an effort to<br />
disappear myself. I thought about sheeting myself in a white shroud, but this seemed fantasticated.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZa7t2qpYXaiBoIkEDNPf9kCvKeYC614Lm-ip5-PObackhiNDD7B2gXg3kDlHcGsihxjsU9E_Po5Oqcqa0pkpbMnKPmGdwaDTZMFr2L84ak0JWdZLMduZY-V9zA11drrDHQ4kSQ7YzAf8/s1600/baroque+mirror+001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZa7t2qpYXaiBoIkEDNPf9kCvKeYC614Lm-ip5-PObackhiNDD7B2gXg3kDlHcGsihxjsU9E_Po5Oqcqa0pkpbMnKPmGdwaDTZMFr2L84ak0JWdZLMduZY-V9zA11drrDHQ4kSQ7YzAf8/s1600/baroque+mirror+001.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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No more so,perhaps, than the thesis of this piece itself, which was to condense a baroque ceiling--including a dome--onto a sheet of mirror. I wanted to blur the painting and the mirror in such a way as to almost erase the place where the one ends and the other begins.. For this reason , I used a neutral palette<br />
consisting of a flat white spray painted through lace onto which details in flat black, gloss black, gloss gun metal grey, metallic silver, and gloss white were added in increments.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrcTwFERvvfmZ8EkLcaq9b1-ia1fhqJfNoxxu4CJN_LRh3WC7rsG8UzVGWre87IncecmPcBi4pSmNzKAGSLoo2bpV7u52juiH0beNFkrBxCj1-IuQVCcymAUYrNVWluJnEnRHrPZDGCdY/s1600/baroque+mirror+006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrcTwFERvvfmZ8EkLcaq9b1-ia1fhqJfNoxxu4CJN_LRh3WC7rsG8UzVGWre87IncecmPcBi4pSmNzKAGSLoo2bpV7u52juiH0beNFkrBxCj1-IuQVCcymAUYrNVWluJnEnRHrPZDGCdY/s1600/baroque+mirror+006.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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The lace through which I shot the " skeleton image" was from a curtain for a baby's room, and featured smiling teddy bears holding balloons reading, "it's a boy" . This is my baroque mirror's preposterous origin.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFEkJiEGkyHnf4TTj5zKM4R7XnBZzFPjdl2Gv0AquH7WLFuG_4-bmHnRMcys3lssMakxdMpIK_Mt2ksaOjJrDCpDWLjznAIMGd7t4n_CiNrUbWQ5ad00Pxf-9bU55HddSbb2OhMN3qev0/s1600/baroque+mirror+004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFEkJiEGkyHnf4TTj5zKM4R7XnBZzFPjdl2Gv0AquH7WLFuG_4-bmHnRMcys3lssMakxdMpIK_Mt2ksaOjJrDCpDWLjznAIMGd7t4n_CiNrUbWQ5ad00Pxf-9bU55HddSbb2OhMN3qev0/s1600/baroque+mirror+004.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
Another working proposition was that if you take horror vacui far enough, it cancels<br />
itself. Whether this is true or not, the piece makes a more unified impression--I hope--in person than in these<br />
photographs.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilS3PkPy2EIgXIFRpqo-8s_HlecX0lA7A_Gid3SDoeGvxjipBGr78gAL2nEd-lIF5NBYGSl1bRmyDhW8YOJ3MYlhv0RW-OvtiYTsU2RB_7HLNDydvYwTtfUOkkjt5t2zzIHL5RNP7tLug/s1600/baroque+mirror+005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilS3PkPy2EIgXIFRpqo-8s_HlecX0lA7A_Gid3SDoeGvxjipBGr78gAL2nEd-lIF5NBYGSl1bRmyDhW8YOJ3MYlhv0RW-OvtiYTsU2RB_7HLNDydvYwTtfUOkkjt5t2zzIHL5RNP7tLug/s1600/baroque+mirror+005.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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I only did a few such pieces. They were an extreme that I backed away from. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzvlncMDKLnk1-j7rPprku5S-7Wv7EeKx8hnSYEiRcEdsud1KlXwZYJJXvyh7ltn3CGx2psPRQ20Muc05QqDCUURo2W5mevlkuseb4IlpVNT4DHi3pmy3nYzPd27FHo8sSfuWTEdC-wVU/s1600/baroque+mirror+014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzvlncMDKLnk1-j7rPprku5S-7Wv7EeKx8hnSYEiRcEdsud1KlXwZYJJXvyh7ltn3CGx2psPRQ20Muc05QqDCUURo2W5mevlkuseb4IlpVNT4DHi3pmy3nYzPd27FHo8sSfuWTEdC-wVU/s1600/baroque+mirror+014.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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There was also the superstitious sense of being watched from the other side of the mirror by my dead---if a superstition may be understood as a notion not quite believed but entertained none-the-less. I was perhaps doomed to be haunted, then, and not only by my dead but by lace teddy bears holding balloons.</div>
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This was done at roughly the same time as The Black Mirror (for James Merrill) which was, however, done on thick plate glass. I no longer remember which was done first, but both had been preceded by a number of studies on either window panes or small mirrors, and were to be the last flat pieces on glass or mirror that I did. They would be followed by a larger number of paintings on double or triple mirrors, but the slickness of a glass surface was one which never quite appealed to my hand, unlike working on aluminum screening---which requires a fastidious lightness--or paper--where I can exalt in exactitude. This may sound odd, but glass--which can be revised, scrapped off ,or painted over--- forgives me a little too much. </div>
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(A Baroque Mirror; 1995; the mirror is 29" x 40", and is photographed from right to left, then left to right, and then in different sections)<br />
<br />phillip larrimorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747987191464459195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7616340615460605880.post-87657566727709247822014-04-04T05:17:00.000-07:002014-04-04T05:17:19.185-07:00THE REIGN OF TEN THOUSAND THOUSAND BEINGS:PICTOGRAM DRAWINGSDuring the early and mid 1980's we used to dance every Saturday night--or rather, every early Sunday morning--at the Paradise Garage, a dance palace which was an automotive garage during the weekdays. This was in lower Manhattan, not far from our loft in Soho.<br />
<br />
We--my lover, Michael. and I--would wake at 1:30 or 2:00 in the morning, drink coffee so strong a spoon could stand in it, take an herbal remedy called "Chi power" which was supposed to be a natural amphetamine,roll other herbal remedies, and head out--our hearts racing for obvious reasons--to the Garage.<br />
<br />
En route, the streets were largely empty, but occasionally some or another hulking male beauty (broadway dancer, ballet dancer, modern dancer, weightlifter, swimmer) could be<br />
spied hastening to the bare lightbulb and corrugated tin door that lead to the ramp which lead to the ticket office--only club members admitted!--and from there to the entry room where many gorgeous semi-nude<br />
dancers stood on the periphery of the dance floor, and from there to the dance floor, and a protracted<br />
ecstasy of being subsumed in the rhythm of hiphop under the hypnogogic tutelage of DJ Larry Levan.<br />
<br />
For me, a furrowed intellectual (deep into weightlifting, none-the-less) it was a revelation, and I took<br />
as much pride when the best dancers of Brooklyn admitted me into their clan as I did when a<br />
Pulitzer prize winning poet complimented a poem of mine.<br />
<br />
I had come into this rejuvenescent quasi-adolescent realm late, in my '30's. My '20's had<br />
been squandered in philosophical quandaries and bouts of metaphysical anguish, and I was bent<br />
on making up for lost time. My relationship with M. was what might be described as a highly<br />
corrupted monogamy, moreover--more than once this or that rivetting satellite on the dance floor<br />
ended up in our bed, undergoing a drugged menage a trois to the Faure Barcarolles in the later<br />
part of the morning. It was joy until it ceased to be fun.<br />
<br />
The Paradise Garage has entered art history as the purview of Keith Haring, who we often saw there<br />
in his unmistakable glasses, writhing among the black boys. Much of his iconography was inspired<br />
by the dancers on the dance floor.Those crowds of jiggling pictograms began there.<br />
<br />
We would also see Robert Mapplethorpe cruising the bar, looking like a camera on its tripod himself,<br />
his legs akimbo, scanning the crowd for his next model. A great many of the models of his<br />
photographs were found there, and some I knew.<br />
<br />
There was a time when those shining hours palled. I remember when the reprise of a song heard too often<br />
suddenly halted me. I was tired of this particular aquarium. News of the Virus was spreading, furthermore, not so fast as the Virus, alas, but enough to graze our circle. The sight of someone adored from afar grown suddenly gaunt,of one and then another rapid disappearance from the scene was cause to re-think easy love, to investigate pre-cautionary measures, to restrict the magic circle, and--in my case--to step out of it altogether. Suddenly, I became a caregiver rather than a boyfriend.<br />
<br />
Many years later, I dreamed of the Paradise Garage. It was a part of Paradise, just as it had been advertised, the part of paradise where to be young, beautiful, and queer is sacred. I saw an array<br />
of faces (and bodies, for that matter) not to be forgotten. Some internal camera of my own had recorded<br />
them, the ten thousand thousand lovers.<br />
<br />
I remembered Keith Haring,too, and decided to make a scroll of the thousands on the dance floor using<br />
pictograms as a friendly nod to him. Allan Mc Collum's rooms of thousands of slightly variable objects<br />
was another inspiration--one of my objectives was never to duplicate a pictogram.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUm6Ek2jEH_N8RgPohJg19LmGebeezWBKEvDL2bDgnyGyYKzAgpAUOIXLz0YBzHLIMfgtQq2faInLgbacm0d2tC7KxhqUHuBr-UMuu1I6d9h1NyBlZ187syFvdD3BzIjSWS75V2zkagng/s1600/Pictures+10+089.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUm6Ek2jEH_N8RgPohJg19LmGebeezWBKEvDL2bDgnyGyYKzAgpAUOIXLz0YBzHLIMfgtQq2faInLgbacm0d2tC7KxhqUHuBr-UMuu1I6d9h1NyBlZ187syFvdD3BzIjSWS75V2zkagng/s1600/Pictures+10+089.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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The pictogram drawings underwent a number of permutations. At first they happened on a grid.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpItHV05mKu1T_FF0TnTfq3gNZy9bUH4dqiZFgyf_01Ob06f5j2G8JmeQqAPS1KTG9V_MKqPTPjWikH45DNlAXfSahByO-FgteJ-oePsr2Y5Y177CI5hgVZe6cl_pIvLQeVUXd8OhQkxk/s1600/Pictures+4+008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpItHV05mKu1T_FF0TnTfq3gNZy9bUH4dqiZFgyf_01Ob06f5j2G8JmeQqAPS1KTG9V_MKqPTPjWikH45DNlAXfSahByO-FgteJ-oePsr2Y5Y177CI5hgVZe6cl_pIvLQeVUXd8OhQkxk/s1600/Pictures+4+008.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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Later, I made them into something which I hoped would shimmer the way calligraphy in Arabic shimmers on a Mirhab.</div>
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At times, I experimented with how many pictograms I could get on a small piece of paper.</div>
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Or if I could put a series of drawings inside another.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOS18jvXdqqEDBY7PTA_93jDTZirXVchRMh6tJcg7zEg-eCfeqCw6rgQKS9Fq8WOL6InRK96PbQTlq6ZT91pv_WOoYKuVfVjGuSAY-_VBO_NqNV-pH89765VWGV2FJUxcZquUAuhjGHag/s1600/Pictures+7+004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOS18jvXdqqEDBY7PTA_93jDTZirXVchRMh6tJcg7zEg-eCfeqCw6rgQKS9Fq8WOL6InRK96PbQTlq6ZT91pv_WOoYKuVfVjGuSAY-_VBO_NqNV-pH89765VWGV2FJUxcZquUAuhjGHag/s1600/Pictures+7+004.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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Or if I could layer a drawing over another one.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM1NeXeupQAbwuDoMyE469BHhEG14OUpHJ8uNoBJtILMR_b-SJ83MhtmAVBg96DV8Rsn8-r0tm_mSWhDyVmjtcIHHCkjEhN2u8-WQi_Q2l_ggdYyzcalkXPdkEFscy0oO-TMSqxJrBwm8/s1600/Pictures+11+067.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM1NeXeupQAbwuDoMyE469BHhEG14OUpHJ8uNoBJtILMR_b-SJ83MhtmAVBg96DV8Rsn8-r0tm_mSWhDyVmjtcIHHCkjEhN2u8-WQi_Q2l_ggdYyzcalkXPdkEFscy0oO-TMSqxJrBwm8/s1600/Pictures+11+067.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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This and the drawing below it are layered over a grid/pictogram</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7R4udy4tOpNQjzCqmve8sq3VabLVy2IgyRfxVwzZDoUD5EKJHt21IF04HtYOoxdPxxrHKkvMGNYxL3vy0wnVvUjo8Oe-VWFAU0L54l-SXTe9D2ydFm8qcwsJ9Wf4UgbTT6q_aaltIlSs/s1600/Pictures+11+154.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7R4udy4tOpNQjzCqmve8sq3VabLVy2IgyRfxVwzZDoUD5EKJHt21IF04HtYOoxdPxxrHKkvMGNYxL3vy0wnVvUjo8Oe-VWFAU0L54l-SXTe9D2ydFm8qcwsJ9Wf4UgbTT6q_aaltIlSs/s1600/Pictures+11+154.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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The four drawings which follow this are colored over a two layer grid/pictogram</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmMH1iMjxpjwpMLn6AW81BeIUXuoFSJMGGiYJ-fxEVWnJMD3bWjqw8Vik64fbusBqKOcxh_0-jmYx7Obbj7MXdGe9q2KrR93zMuasXmY3gzoi2NuqH-cazVlvOYwDXm5U6wO8E0bvoYI0/s1600/Pictures+13+027.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmMH1iMjxpjwpMLn6AW81BeIUXuoFSJMGGiYJ-fxEVWnJMD3bWjqw8Vik64fbusBqKOcxh_0-jmYx7Obbj7MXdGe9q2KrR93zMuasXmY3gzoi2NuqH-cazVlvOYwDXm5U6wO8E0bvoYI0/s1600/Pictures+13+027.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVsANZEyTDofJLToNb5qXVbFz3Zv7vLkjYmaAk8TQKtK-sUSvfEF6FRAFXzxKWdPXU6K_dNgiZ2l2nsm9g_Ao4Kw4yX8mWxs4udrvK524qUoCOd5m1nG6R0XPUlenQFI-6kaay-RbkJmw/s1600/Pictures+13+025.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVsANZEyTDofJLToNb5qXVbFz3Zv7vLkjYmaAk8TQKtK-sUSvfEF6FRAFXzxKWdPXU6K_dNgiZ2l2nsm9g_Ao4Kw4yX8mWxs4udrvK524qUoCOd5m1nG6R0XPUlenQFI-6kaay-RbkJmw/s1600/Pictures+13+025.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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. Below is a four layered pictogram drawing. As in polyphonic music, the questions is how many "voices" can be orchestrated and "heard"--how legible is the first and second and third layer in relationship to the fourth?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoMWh7d94Uk6a84PGpLd23f6SIaNnaeoBFFqk8kY7ebC7dmY3HzAoD3jZv3tNVb20DyOXPF8vX9F2s-p1h_Uhcl45VHj3y_FyF-wjGEb9Tg_1b7-36yD-RMzCOyf6jEj9EPewiVrNsTa4/s1600/Pictures+15+031.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoMWh7d94Uk6a84PGpLd23f6SIaNnaeoBFFqk8kY7ebC7dmY3HzAoD3jZv3tNVb20DyOXPF8vX9F2s-p1h_Uhcl45VHj3y_FyF-wjGEb9Tg_1b7-36yD-RMzCOyf6jEj9EPewiVrNsTa4/s1600/Pictures+15+031.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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I also did a series of pictographic drawings on two layers of aluminum screening that had been enameled white; below is one.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnJiUd4yD0WNjKyZH3jAugNxLzMrAN2l7Vn00zSgTluZMhKx7VNg0737W5il9oqJCTmLPna2ZxSdIr5R2HBoLCYIiSYu3w8zJON3eDXtBNqJfogeArfX5zNMLh0r-gCqQvB7eK8FRROH0/s1600/Pictures+8+045.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnJiUd4yD0WNjKyZH3jAugNxLzMrAN2l7Vn00zSgTluZMhKx7VNg0737W5il9oqJCTmLPna2ZxSdIr5R2HBoLCYIiSYu3w8zJON3eDXtBNqJfogeArfX5zNMLh0r-gCqQvB7eK8FRROH0/s1600/Pictures+8+045.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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These were not done to a recitation of the names of Allah, but are more Buddhist in origin--- each pictogram represents a prayer for all sentient beings. These were begun in 2009 and resumed intermittantly through 2012.</div>
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<br />phillip larrimorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747987191464459195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7616340615460605880.post-27000905795159889822014-03-31T19:53:00.000-07:002014-03-31T19:53:18.098-07:00INSIDE AN ANCIENT TREEThe week had been spent in terrible suspense, as when I arrived at my friend's house in Virginia, he was doubled over in agony. This turned out to be from kidney stones, and I soon saw him spirited away into the vast and impenetrable bureaucracy of a modern day hospital, which has procedures and protocols but no ready answers.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii-PV6Co_hz7h7_F-7IBwIJAt66JUchUIRSP3UUHNrf2nP4KlPuEZIf4kaiqBGp3NOCVX5mNJt1WmDTgciwvJ67_X2eZqq_jCdP4CZRq8rGjo9B3X0uZv3m40i3nlFk2apRQNhOph5fD8/s1600/front+royal+229.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii-PV6Co_hz7h7_F-7IBwIJAt66JUchUIRSP3UUHNrf2nP4KlPuEZIf4kaiqBGp3NOCVX5mNJt1WmDTgciwvJ67_X2eZqq_jCdP4CZRq8rGjo9B3X0uZv3m40i3nlFk2apRQNhOph5fD8/s1600/front+royal+229.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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I had fled my home and family to visit him--it was almost the first time in three years that I had left the care of my old parents to other hands--- so this was like being upbraided by fate. Waiting word from the hospital had a terrible quality ,too, because my friend's wife of more than fifty years had died six months before. She was very dear to me, and the enormity of his lose--and my own--was constantly about. It was the constant presence of absence, as it were.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW9DDqpGM0bbPDrzLBn8hUpsgprCpatNZMW7dQV4xqaFq70CQLSRpeTu5C-5cmQ3S_e0ye8ssMqPsI2nOCeoTBBpG7AYeyRaqNs001J3Qj0J7yEzlhm6b5FJ8UxcB2vOV0RhF-CvYJKqA/s1600/front+royal+234.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW9DDqpGM0bbPDrzLBn8hUpsgprCpatNZMW7dQV4xqaFq70CQLSRpeTu5C-5cmQ3S_e0ye8ssMqPsI2nOCeoTBBpG7AYeyRaqNs001J3Qj0J7yEzlhm6b5FJ8UxcB2vOV0RhF-CvYJKqA/s1600/front+royal+234.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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My friend , who was in a great pain, seemed almost intent on quarreling with me, and I felt terribly conflicted about remaining while so obviously unwanted--but who would be around to help otherwise? So I tried to make myself unobtrusive and small, and felt like I was walking on shells in the ghostly house.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb5JIss3yWep38G7qoUTLplXhzjb2ig-sRU78g28AgAmtCi4lzzHp8ENgqp-SlfPmQ5yn3LcmuSUO-_S5WTQaVOxlCHsFtuCXxhgXsrAkF1JAQ9hBb394bZFj4xxLcD_M9QSaDoji1wA0/s1600/front+royal+237.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb5JIss3yWep38G7qoUTLplXhzjb2ig-sRU78g28AgAmtCi4lzzHp8ENgqp-SlfPmQ5yn3LcmuSUO-_S5WTQaVOxlCHsFtuCXxhgXsrAkF1JAQ9hBb394bZFj4xxLcD_M9QSaDoji1wA0/s1600/front+royal+237.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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It is odd how beautiful things become under stress. That week, every little detail became beautiful--the cracks in the pavement, a stone covered with moss. I photographed the light falling over the stacks and stacks of paintings done by my friend's late wife, the light through curtains, or on a wall, or the sunlight passing through what leaves remained on the trees that late October, or the Hallowe'en decorations of the small town. Then my friend was operated on, his son came to care for him ,and I left.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPCBpVLHDBEGvHWyebYIlQnQ0uM2cN3C4qHNUBRTht4v8PafznMlOpwuXVhOb2vQP9iA9Q1UcRQIoQoXvUif8CvRKtFM_qCs9kdVcy8_k8KKSwI6878uzWDwC_PIS6pipJtFLnvbcN70U/s1600/front+royal+238.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPCBpVLHDBEGvHWyebYIlQnQ0uM2cN3C4qHNUBRTht4v8PafznMlOpwuXVhOb2vQP9iA9Q1UcRQIoQoXvUif8CvRKtFM_qCs9kdVcy8_k8KKSwI6878uzWDwC_PIS6pipJtFLnvbcN70U/s1600/front+royal+238.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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I visited a dear aunt en route home. Her place is called "Windy Hill". She is in her late 'eighties and a wise woman. We have always loved each other with an unspoken understanding. We talked at length of the problems which had lately attended my parent's care, and of the savage quarrels that had come up over apparently small matters. Her advice was matter-of-fact and to the point, and much appreciated.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAWA76E3GqGYcYyg-Pmm1ypEW4rKfrvE0a0apWHeUijiazT2B68qkeFA1Wv8lub5uikRzW5UeYokVCk8XW1248-kWGFDgvIYRI0emaDjEWYMytvDpjrBF8_QWpP-9zofCyiWmt6w4sVJA/s1600/front+royal+239.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAWA76E3GqGYcYyg-Pmm1ypEW4rKfrvE0a0apWHeUijiazT2B68qkeFA1Wv8lub5uikRzW5UeYokVCk8XW1248-kWGFDgvIYRI0emaDjEWYMytvDpjrBF8_QWpP-9zofCyiWmt6w4sVJA/s1600/front+royal+239.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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Windy Hill is high in the Appalachian mountains, and has been a homey sanctuary for her family members for many years, and so it was for me. As she napped in the mid-afternoon, I walked the property, and soon found myself fascinated with a weathered tree at the edge of it. It seemed to be telling me something about <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzdWZypBW52F_yLcqJ6QzWUw3Aytnr369S9GuLE3xYCrqjKKZ6jcpJQq3WXrNhiE_Lt8LzjyyrZdGJAcg0rjHbI_e3EC14P6Q29kpMedo1U5EgZtWEZVkqru8GSKdsbwWkmaLEp4QIMVg/s1600/front+royal+216.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzdWZypBW52F_yLcqJ6QzWUw3Aytnr369S9GuLE3xYCrqjKKZ6jcpJQq3WXrNhiE_Lt8LzjyyrZdGJAcg0rjHbI_e3EC14P6Q29kpMedo1U5EgZtWEZVkqru8GSKdsbwWkmaLEp4QIMVg/s1600/front+royal+216.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
time by the shape of its folds, and the termite borings, and concave hollows in its split trunk.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdKytkM7fF1F_fedJXhfdfccbpRDmKrXxcCBm6wYBJHr74g21qNs8jamehlDEfqPva43fs1dwQf_W9zQdAq4VebNv8gl472oakomKAoIOgI8QcLVhuBHYla2jgbRAHbKAB__bqX7_S_5M/s1600/front+royal+220.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdKytkM7fF1F_fedJXhfdfccbpRDmKrXxcCBm6wYBJHr74g21qNs8jamehlDEfqPva43fs1dwQf_W9zQdAq4VebNv8gl472oakomKAoIOgI8QcLVhuBHYla2jgbRAHbKAB__bqX7_S_5M/s1600/front+royal+220.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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I fancied that I saw the entirety of the history of art in its weathered trunk, and could identify Michelangelo and Rodin in the lichen which covered the cancerous boles which warted it.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6dvbjT_tTi83CEO6EbH-fv-ggyA-fhkWk6T_YvjCXN7dv-LJbM7TP0hCci8paSN4diL5U0En0Glb2kfFEt81rVNpVMzuhXpUhGXc9IFr9sHCDCKNPUW2eFTG6qtQ7wupl7G4BgmBfKS8/s1600/front+royal+222.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6dvbjT_tTi83CEO6EbH-fv-ggyA-fhkWk6T_YvjCXN7dv-LJbM7TP0hCci8paSN4diL5U0En0Glb2kfFEt81rVNpVMzuhXpUhGXc9IFr9sHCDCKNPUW2eFTG6qtQ7wupl7G4BgmBfKS8/s1600/front+royal+222.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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Also the faces of nymphs over which bark had grown, more prehistoric than Daphne, and ships' heads, and prows .</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN8U5zgPW7AjSHZ3JpWvB5NyUjAGdmAFuHCXnoUxgKPIqkFdd0wPj8iP3Ec3Jf-3XQFINwpycMtjCbe4jw2iy_UWicarCOVcCUb__ldnPosFHLBXQ7FVcEmtuvUTY_CFyXz4iMheer6EA/s1600/front+royal+225.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN8U5zgPW7AjSHZ3JpWvB5NyUjAGdmAFuHCXnoUxgKPIqkFdd0wPj8iP3Ec3Jf-3XQFINwpycMtjCbe4jw2iy_UWicarCOVcCUb__ldnPosFHLBXQ7FVcEmtuvUTY_CFyXz4iMheer6EA/s1600/front+royal+225.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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The desert dwellings of lost civilizations known only through fragmentary evidence also were there;</div>
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no one knew where these aboriginals went, or what their enemies made off with.</div>
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The last time the suspension bridges were used was in time immemorial.</div>
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Above all these minuscule activity, the upper trunk of the tree seemed to lament like Niobe.</div>
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And the faces of the witnessses were covered with a volcanic sediment in the rising storm that ended their civilization.</div>
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Or maybe they just waited, waited, waited for time to unpetrify them.</div>
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Maybe the sea would roll back, and all would be restored. </div>
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It was constantly metamorphosizing between decay and potentiality as I circled it, and I wondered if my recent sorrows had made me susceptible to instruction.. Much later, after my aunt went to sleep, and I dozed off myself, I woke with a start. It was after midnight. Despite the cold I went out on the mountaintop and studied the stars as one may only do on a mountaintop far from city lights. The sight of the stars re-newed me, and I re-oriented myself to the vast sky, having received the wisdom of the tree and my dear old aunt. I promised myself to cherish my old ones again, and shed a few hot salt tears. The next day, I returned home.</div>
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phillip larrimorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747987191464459195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7616340615460605880.post-77823189217824839182014-03-27T13:57:00.009-07:002021-11-14T13:57:49.710-08:00MICHELLE<br />
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<img border="0" height="395" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWS6-kCgpqyzxljOFD_NfKgLzw2W8xu789cXgByX0RsAg1FnpZq24xIfmoAdF1CMm8l8ZG824N_QqprDoTHEgvMMrYrF8ua65w8CkqXFP7NukYzqOs7oH_8zvgSacBqRPMTUiYFe35ah8/s1600/eph_0455-john-rothermell-in-a-fashion-pose.jpg" width="400" /><span id="goog_296716671"></span><span id="goog_296716672"></span></div>
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<br />
Nightly,towards twelve<br />
When the room with its confining walls<br />
And wreaths of smoke within<br />
Can not be borne,<br />
Your car--increasingly geriatric-- <br />
Will carry us non-the-less<br />
To a collection of outposts,<br />
Little would-be worlds,<br />
With their own customs,mores,<br />
Their native costumes--<br />
Ranging from jockstraps<br />
To feathered boas--<br />
Their denizens<br />
With their secret agendas,<br />
Their satellites<br />
Spinning in the haze<br />
<br />
<br />
And as mortality rates<br />
In avant-garde circles prove high,<br />
It is all the more astonishing<br />
On such beclouded nights<br />
To run across this or that <br />
Old nemesis or ally<br />
In from Paris or L.A.<br />
Some metaphysical circus ramp<br />
Landing them here<br />
Among transvestites,<br />
To cult membership confined<br />
<br />
<br />
X., with whom I've locked horns<br />
On the periphery<br />
Of more scenes than I can classify<br />
Is not dead after all,<br />
As reported but sports<br />
A new incarnation<br />
As an entrepeneur<br />
On a side street<br />
Which will surely grow chic<br />
Now that he's here,<br />
Here to summon his minions<br />
From the four quarters<br />
And control the mindwaves<br />
Of those whom fashion has made mad.<br />
<br />
<br />
His nails are well-manicured<br />
Which once were bitten<br />
To the quick over a boy<br />
Whose name he's forgotten,<br />
I remember him, too,<br />
On the barricades of the 'sixties<br />
Who now affects<br />
A diacritical deconstruction<br />
Of a tuxedo from Milan<br />
As casual wear..<br />
He has taken a shine<br />
To my companion, little Tito,<br />
Who will slash his own wrists<br />
Six months hence<br />
<br />
<br />
Our gossip--<br />
Concerning whose parental chateau<br />
Has been blown to smithereens,<br />
Or what shard of glass<br />
Was put in whose ballet slipper<br />
At what premiere,<br />
Of who tattoo'd himself where<br />
Etcetera,<br />
Is what we secretly rue.<br />
That our period of decadence<br />
"Begun at birth"<br />
May seem self -indulgent<br />
To some (perhaps you,<br />
the reader I otherwise court)<br />
I quite understand.<br />
That self destruction<br /> Is de rigeur when Utopias fail<br />
And millenia end without rapture<br />
You may not comprehend.<br />
That X. once put daisies<br />
In rifle-barrels aimed at him<br />
And believed that rock n roll<br />
Would crack the gates of Eden open wide<br />
Seems incredible to me, as well<br />
In a realm of beauty besotted with death.<br />
<br />
<br />
Tito--who I suspect<br />
of mixing downers with alcohol--<br />
has grown lugubrious<br />
cataloging those of his acquaintance<br />
Who have O'D on heroin<br />
Or crystal meth,<br />
Died in gang-wars<br />
Or thanks in one case<br />
To auto-erotic axphixiation misfired,<br />
In another to S and M<br />
Prolonged to excess,<br />
Not longer a game.<br />
<br />
This plainly bores X.<br />
who has heard it each season since '66<br />
When he hung out with Warhol.<br />
It makes him, indeed,<br />
Positively reptilian--with ennui?<br />
(Or does he foresee<br />
The unsanguinary scene<br />
In the bathtub?<br />
I will wonder, later,<br />
Recalling what he says next:)<br />
<br />
"That girl over there<br />
In the black leather halter top<br />
And leather garters<br />
Is neither a girl or a guy.<br />
If you think you are lonely,<br />
meet Michelle, a hermaphrodite<br />
With residual male genitals,<br />
You wouldn't exactly call it a dick<br />
Said Bobby,<br />
To whom she gave VD .<br />
I won't forget<br />
The first time I heard him --or her--<br />
Her voice a low ghostly alto<br />
Exactly between him and her<br />
--Not campy at all<br />
Like a drag queen's<br />
But recognizable in an instant<br />
Because the hairs on your neck<br />
Stood upward<br />
And you felt you were about to remember<br />
A bad dream that you'd forgotten.<br />
It was unique but not a Eunuch's<br />
(And I have met some in Egypt)<br />
Though naturally<br />
It brought to mind<br />
That old Victrola recording<br />
Of the last surviving castrato<br />
Made in 1905<br />
<br />
<br />
"The last time I saw her<br />
Was in DC<br />
When she wept in a gutter<br />
Having been kicked out<br />
Of the lesbian caucus<br />
And before that,<br />
The Black Panthers<br />
--She severely disturbed Bobby Seale--<br />
Also the Gay Activist Alliance<br />
--There had been scenes<br />
on the stairs of the Winter Palace--<br />
The Womyns group loathed her<br />
--she had hit on some sister<br />
in a horrid male way<br />
At a symposium on clitoral massage.<br />
In short, she'd been kicked out<br />
On her polymorphous perverse ass<br />
From every coalition or caucus<br />
Which ever existed,<br />
A freak among freaks.<br />
If she can survive, so can you."<br />
<br />
(illustrations:portraits of John Rothermell and David Brinzenhofe by Peter Hujar)<br />
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<img border="0" height="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipY794zeLmr51egX6hV2BGkoISFLcpGmRudtIUrabDdpvA5X3e_SQoAuT9y0h1C95knl0FWnRhdf5axje89UZfJ1QO9RkSwJlwf7rAqBwQgQ0a3aDvMfrt-FRrz2U07d3UAJXcwX4u8Gk/s1600/huj_109_eph_0500_1_hr8bit0+%25281%2529.jpg" width="320" /></div>
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phillip larrimorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747987191464459195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7616340615460605880.post-24101142865458184792014-03-25T16:38:00.000-07:002014-05-01T04:56:03.176-07:00BLACK DRAWINGS<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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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/AVvXsEgI1rcVrUnrp8l9pfrzap7spJO971L-Zi1X5UPu0ktuipCHBiFd8X93pGEieGNdeWX7XiBBzw7ZrwJrab99ciROZG3ESOASkuh2JkyXFkhx3QNLh00MK05CYInHW8QeePw5To3Dy1gUdBs/s1600/black+drawings+003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI1rcVrUnrp8l9pfrzap7spJO971L-Zi1X5UPu0ktuipCHBiFd8X93pGEieGNdeWX7XiBBzw7ZrwJrab99ciROZG3ESOASkuh2JkyXFkhx3QNLh00MK05CYInHW8QeePw5To3Dy1gUdBs/s1600/black+drawings+003.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Throughout the later 1980's, I had drawn to the recitation of the 99</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">names of Allah, but there was a time c.1991 when I changed practise. Instead of an impeccable technique in ink,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">I would "break my hand" and explore awkwardness, color, and a black ground. In retrospect, I can see that it was an</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">attempt to integrate the sense of lose, both of my friends lost to AIDS, and the</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">distance I had put between myself and the Sufis. These drawings, done in pastels, became a kind of journey into the</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">underground. They are not without a certain humor, however, and I executed them at a clip, often eight or so in the span of a day. I have destroyed a great many --a number were later turned into constructions . Fifty or so have survived</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">destruction, of which these are a sample. </span></td></tr>
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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/AVvXsEjjh1qWioR0mCWfUQYS5o9vM3JCjhlC3-DdzO4wwR5zmv8r_h01ff9MMPdALWdfa3nwpovhzw5nnOOaye-SQXuOcEr4Sx2w8pyPUphNsruYWJRdu98tZnYRwaQRyVHYEszPJTnXhganG94/s1600/black+drawings+006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjh1qWioR0mCWfUQYS5o9vM3JCjhlC3-DdzO4wwR5zmv8r_h01ff9MMPdALWdfa3nwpovhzw5nnOOaye-SQXuOcEr4Sx2w8pyPUphNsruYWJRdu98tZnYRwaQRyVHYEszPJTnXhganG94/s1600/black+drawings+006.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">one of the problems I was working on was color separation--a printer in Oakland had asked me to devise</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">something which might be reproduced, and it was my notion to print something like this drawing or the one before it on black vinyl insect screening .</span></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBLTDU69NqbsE0_dXQVjHciV_1aX7EQHdyIWVTL1pdSGApZwXN4BF9taMdHy_0y_00wp7BwD9y3CcPdkQE3_zd54a_zRV3CmaE5ZrvBdX2nuv1Yu-9XGFcmZz0QcOTTzn9y71wlzphcEc/s1600/black+drawings+008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBLTDU69NqbsE0_dXQVjHciV_1aX7EQHdyIWVTL1pdSGApZwXN4BF9taMdHy_0y_00wp7BwD9y3CcPdkQE3_zd54a_zRV3CmaE5ZrvBdX2nuv1Yu-9XGFcmZz0QcOTTzn9y71wlzphcEc/s1600/black+drawings+008.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
another question was whether antithetical compositions could be put on top of each other<br />
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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/AVvXsEiNaCse65s2FpB9f3R_zoPUE1C27eTbQaCis7j1DpAAevRvSps8fX67Kt6peUNHZyFnxbrhgV40oNYbt0HmnKJekQRNf26DvlCfoB2zQq52nmkUkz8XmfHl_yf3b1FVg1j05R_7WwaYLGs/s1600/black+drawings+015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNaCse65s2FpB9f3R_zoPUE1C27eTbQaCis7j1DpAAevRvSps8fX67Kt6peUNHZyFnxbrhgV40oNYbt0HmnKJekQRNf26DvlCfoB2zQq52nmkUkz8XmfHl_yf3b1FVg1j05R_7WwaYLGs/s1600/black+drawings+015.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">there was also the attempt to record the after effect of the deaths where I had been in attendance--so that this drawing is almost an image of a journey through the land of the dead for me.</span></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhizk6AguStrf5WXj6AMmC1KyHMCP5b7Rv1yKHMTXql_7Ld8JGNUN-QwQagT50hjjnzhY7NdN_MMiUbpV1cmfGx7MevDG-WqWRQaWDRCd3Wjz4ZEp_wVsUMoCiusE2ENf0nFI1UCNtyONc/s1600/black+drawings+016.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhizk6AguStrf5WXj6AMmC1KyHMCP5b7Rv1yKHMTXql_7Ld8JGNUN-QwQagT50hjjnzhY7NdN_MMiUbpV1cmfGx7MevDG-WqWRQaWDRCd3Wjz4ZEp_wVsUMoCiusE2ENf0nFI1UCNtyONc/s1600/black+drawings+016.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
this would be the altogether happier subject matter of creatures at ebb tide by he sea<br />
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or Poseidon and a Nereid. The subject matter of the underworld--or Nekuya--re-appears below.<br />
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Looking back, I see the struggle between the pull to oblivion and an inherent joi de vivre.<br />
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This is common to everyone, I now know. <br />
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(a "snow drawing")<br />
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(a " sex on the couch" drawing)<br />
<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/AVvXsEhXrFteADu6pYzyra-RM8Su1K4UFbmsQaw44WiHBbUcYXnAiIVY-KWG4ldVoPIRc3LIDp53gO5ImbHSZXlkDoqrShTLNcOwixRA6Iim3o0qHqykXn-mlJ_cIHP_pvzpaTjtcU8xlhQv0i4/s1600/black+drawings+038.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXrFteADu6pYzyra-RM8Su1K4UFbmsQaw44WiHBbUcYXnAiIVY-KWG4ldVoPIRc3LIDp53gO5ImbHSZXlkDoqrShTLNcOwixRA6Iim3o0qHqykXn-mlJ_cIHP_pvzpaTjtcU8xlhQv0i4/s1600/black+drawings+038.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">(a "rumble")</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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(a coral garden)<br />
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(a coral garden lite by a half moon)<br />
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phillip larrimorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747987191464459195noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7616340615460605880.post-13943771397281940222014-03-20T05:28:00.000-07:002014-03-20T05:28:03.661-07:00HOW ONE THING TURNS INTO SOMETHING ELSE (HEBE)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The paradox of flowing drapery rendered in marble has always seemed sexy to me.<br />
It is actually a multiple paradox (or paradox multiplied by another paradox and yet<br />
another). There is the rendering of the impermanent into the" permanent"--- the<br />
human form into statuary--- the suggestion of nudity by way of drapery--<br />
the flowing by the motionless-- the fleeting moment frozen in time---poor.Hebe will never<br />
undress.<br />
<br />
It would almost seem that such a statue is upheld by the interplay of crisscrossing<br />
paradoxes, and that,lacking them, it might topple and fall. It also helps that it<br />
is marble.<br />
.<br />
To extend these paradoxes further by transforming a sculpture into a painting, a painting<br />
into a construction,an academic work into an experiment , was my purpose in adopting<br />
Canova's Hebe to a four layered aluminum screen painting.<br />
<br />
There was also the sexiness of flowing drapery, in marble or not.<br />
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<br />
I choose Canova's "Hebe"-- she was the Roman Goddess of Health--because Canova<br />
has always posed an additional puzzle to me, that of an artist whose technique<br />
outstrips his <i>affekt, </i> whose parts are superior to the whole.<br />
He is sublime at drapery, but deficient in feeling.<br />
(It occurs to me now that another paradoxical premises was at work--that of<br />
reconstructing a statue from its photograph)<br />
<br />
The first three photographs illustrate the screen painting version. What a photograph can not convey is<br />
how the shimmer among the four images--one on each layer-- seemingly billows and ripples with motion.<br />
<br />
The photographs below<br />
illustrate the two constructions--or free standing sculptures--- made of a four layer<br />
painting on screen from a photograph of a sculpture. The first of these attenuates a<br />
"Canova "into a "Giacometti,"..<br />
<br />
I am not quite happy with the third and may change it into something more like a relief..<br />
(It might thereby fall into the category of a <i>Nereid</i>.)<br />
<br />
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(These were done in the spring of 2009; the painting is four layers of screen and is 2' x2'; the "giacometti" Hebe is 8 inches wide and 22 inches tall; I am revising the last piece somehow and have no idea of what will happen yet )</div>
<br />phillip larrimorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747987191464459195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7616340615460605880.post-22627319841175053802014-03-18T09:07:00.000-07:002020-03-03T19:14:31.768-08:00A POEM OF THE GREENHOUSE<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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In this vast alphabet<br />
of forms we wander<br />
wondering which<br />
of our charges--ranging<br />
from camellia japonica<br />
to araucaria--<br />
wants water,<br />
if Japanese beetles<br />
attack the neurasthenic roses<br />
in our care<br />
or pillage the plum,<br />
if the hydrangeas<br />
on the hillside<br />
wilt in the June heat,<br />
or, conversely, in winter<br />
if the ornamental quinces<br />
brought outside on a mild day<br />
must be wrapped for the night<br />
when February turns frigid.<br />
<br />
Never-the-less, despite<br />
the sometimes seemingly<br />
continual sense of emergency,<br />
the rigid<br />
Linnaean nomenclature<br />
not to mention a clientele<br />
rich in idiosyncrasy,<br />
some immune<br />
to the simplest instruction,<br />
it is beauty<br />
the more touching<br />
for being transient,<br />
perishable as a peony<br />
which seems to shed<br />
its petals as we watch,<br />
which commands our attention,<br />
even our wear.<br />
<br />
Spading the compost<br />
into the clay<br />
until the mixture<br />
resembles cake batter,<br />
is required if the jasmine<br />
or gardenia will make a summer<br />
scent redolent of Eden<br />
or Paradise-- first garden<br />
and the last.<br />
Is it then to be inferred<br />
that a stench<br />
is required to make perfume?<br />
So I suspect.<br />
Certainly sweat<br />
is required, and skill,<br />
also the patient<br />
calculation of effects<br />
though nature is fickle,<br />
the weather unpredictable,<br />
and no reference work<br />
seems to account<br />
for the anomaly<br />
presented by an irate customer<br />
bearing a blackened branch.<br />
<br />
Zigguruts of Babylon<br />
disappear, the topiaried<br />
knot garden is converted<br />
into a bocce court<br />
after the revolution.<br />
The symmetry of heaven<br />
(where all that is lost<br />
will be found)<br />
is felt none-the-less<br />
in an idle moment<br />
on a hot afternoon<br />
when the flower<br />
at which we stare<br />
looks back.<br />
<br />
(1999)<br />
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<br />phillip larrimorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747987191464459195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7616340615460605880.post-30330492902351608962014-03-18T04:54:00.000-07:002014-03-18T04:54:24.922-07:00THE GREENHOUSE DRAWINGS<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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All through my life, I have worked in greenhouses. The first of these was in California, at Rod McClellan's Acres of Orchids, and then in the plant shop which I ran with my friend, Baruch Himmelstein, in North Beach on Grant Avenue. in San Francisco. We specialized in cacti and orchids.<br />
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Later, I tended the orchid collection of my friend, Nina Reed, in upstate New York. To tend the Vandas,and Oenicium, Cattleyas et al was like being in the sacred Alphabet of Forms. I have worked as a foreman in a nursery specializing in bedding plants, as a garden designer, and as a salesperson in rural nurseries.<br />
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How many trees and shrubs and perennials and bedding plants I have watered is known only to the<br />
recording angel, but if it is to be calculated at a thousand a day--which is an understatement<br />
given the scale of certain operations that I've worked for--then must be a matter of millions. Whenever I have left the business, some prehensile tendril loops me back.<br />
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These drawings are not botanical drawings at all, but memories of the Tillandsias--or tiny grey green bromeliads--at Nina Reed's farm. They were also a nod at the extreme linearity of Ellsworth Kelly's drawings of plants. But some Celtic memory of a carpet page from the Lindisfarne Gospels perhaps intervened. I also do such drawings as a way of elucidating my hand, to draw in a different key, so to<br />
speak, from the drawings done to Islamic Il'Allahis. It is also how my hand wants to draw with a certain kind<br />
of pen, especially when the pen is green. These were done in February 2009.<br />
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<br />phillip larrimorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747987191464459195noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7616340615460605880.post-91858910710724909542014-03-11T05:44:00.000-07:002014-03-11T05:44:48.702-07:00THE DREAM OF THE FOUNDRY<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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During the time that my circle was being destroyed by AIDS, I had a dream of a purgatorial<br />
foundry. It consisted of a vast conveyor belt into the moulten center of the earth, into which souls went<br />
gladly, to be purified by the fire. This fire was not a hell of eternal torment, but a place of purification.<br />
(The poem I wrote about it--from the vantage of a Charon-like figure who mans the conveyor belt--appears<br />
earlier on these pages, under the title "The Foundry".)<br />
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At the same time, I painted a number of works on mirror or glass or mirror and glass into which this dream attempted to take form. The earliest of these which survives is this small piece, twelve inches square, painted on a piece of copper colored mirrored tiling. The straight lines are where the mirrored surface appears. My intention was to do a piece which (a) reflected the time of day, which a mirror surely does and (b)a painting in which the viewer may glimpse themselves. A close examination will yield many fiery figures.Also a ladder of mirror among the flames.</div>
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Another version was on glass and mirror. This is the front panel painted on glass sans the mirror which reflects the reversed side.<br />
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This is the reverse side, which is a kind of calligraphic skeleton or armature on which the entire painting "hangs". When it is backed with a second panel of unpainted mirror, it is reversed once again..<br />
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This photograph shows both the two sided painting and the mirror altogether. The two panels are not quite an inch apart, and this process has the effect of "floating " the painting.<br />
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This is another painting from the same time, in which I attempted to depict a fiery figure. The front of the first glass panel appears thus.<br />
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But the reversed side is entirely different and is reflected in a mirror. This is, however, complicated further by a second glass panting below the first which is also painted on both sides.<br />
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This is the front of the second glass panel.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnhhXBch2cyHRYQaFV5lMHVegI-JegAPZRePEyHUtZb7e_AHa0mTDY1hd17sVWsIk1ZmsO5cFu_hrCn4lG5Hvx7wZRj1ziHJidIKFcIPRo_cJ_c-QVsqFJMalu1mthoRkz3PCih5AWtCo/s1600/paintings+on+glass+118.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnhhXBch2cyHRYQaFV5lMHVegI-JegAPZRePEyHUtZb7e_AHa0mTDY1hd17sVWsIk1ZmsO5cFu_hrCn4lG5Hvx7wZRj1ziHJidIKFcIPRo_cJ_c-QVsqFJMalu1mthoRkz3PCih5AWtCo/s1600/paintings+on+glass+118.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
This is the back of the second glass panel.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAy7tFVTDeQjl_v4QczDXq8UBznALOj_NJU1aJVgKa-BLkIlnq2NxE17C3vuHp2-cqFMKTI3RvQZkyasz4tC11JF4NscVtrzHZTRvtoVMCOF5rS22fuHFtQxfCOfnXopY_uGVEB-mXZWM/s1600/paintings+on+glass+069.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAy7tFVTDeQjl_v4QczDXq8UBznALOj_NJU1aJVgKa-BLkIlnq2NxE17C3vuHp2-cqFMKTI3RvQZkyasz4tC11JF4NscVtrzHZTRvtoVMCOF5rS22fuHFtQxfCOfnXopY_uGVEB-mXZWM/s1600/paintings+on+glass+069.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
This is the three panels together. When assembled, the three panels are about an inch apart, and the painting flickers in myriad ways.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj287jVRfvYwEwWg3iPtVpSTH7U6Dfornz_3pVvkchgzlnegnPBPTA9ynob9tXpV2KXpzOcDwch3fbRwtWpJqSJGPY1FV5cFJfGipmFz11TPLdv5b3OvVXNNmwgatTlCpiLTCyU1xrvWVY/s1600/paintings+on+glass+057.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj287jVRfvYwEwWg3iPtVpSTH7U6Dfornz_3pVvkchgzlnegnPBPTA9ynob9tXpV2KXpzOcDwch3fbRwtWpJqSJGPY1FV5cFJfGipmFz11TPLdv5b3OvVXNNmwgatTlCpiLTCyU1xrvWVY/s1600/paintings+on+glass+057.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
The anatomy of this painting is like the one above, and has four painted sides and a mirror.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmektZs6cIRmqOObliYB2hd6cAL_T2v852MflvkTYvtJC_bPsFazn9mQkYvH0W7rT-BIcFNDV_MVEpewMyVXNkxqYAHalklZSbihU3Ksr_uypnU8MGYp3P6RKKv408UTeg6MWdwfDMYW4/s1600/paintings+on+glass+058.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmektZs6cIRmqOObliYB2hd6cAL_T2v852MflvkTYvtJC_bPsFazn9mQkYvH0W7rT-BIcFNDV_MVEpewMyVXNkxqYAHalklZSbihU3Ksr_uypnU8MGYp3P6RKKv408UTeg6MWdwfDMYW4/s1600/paintings+on+glass+058.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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Here is a detail.</div>
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This is another four sided glass piece. Because it is airier than the previous paintings, I have omitted the mirror and with it my own inadvertant appearance.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVIqVWowc4O3wk30306GIGVW4EOclGERFZS0VvlMg3hnvsfZWgFPNWOf09E1yXdWuVWwYxSUuaMNCq0vW0l6PpikXLtb1mSPhDi7PGP3hvj0iFEOCOT6T6aUvUs-oCklAiubhmU1h6mv4/s1600/paintings+on+glass+025.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVIqVWowc4O3wk30306GIGVW4EOclGERFZS0VvlMg3hnvsfZWgFPNWOf09E1yXdWuVWwYxSUuaMNCq0vW0l6PpikXLtb1mSPhDi7PGP3hvj0iFEOCOT6T6aUvUs-oCklAiubhmU1h6mv4/s1600/paintings+on+glass+025.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
This is a detail.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn3jWeKax-XU3Riux6O4F-nwKU3CZYkKlZOxdMnKfPN1FVzWwIilMn3j14DpGsYfezINMsmzo9z5WXUSMdd1r1G_9EuK4excFKzB_jFy4A7EIfL0K5XxtMX6yBXVYWKRFClbHaZTr-Ibc/s1600/paintings+on+glass+143.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn3jWeKax-XU3Riux6O4F-nwKU3CZYkKlZOxdMnKfPN1FVzWwIilMn3j14DpGsYfezINMsmzo9z5WXUSMdd1r1G_9EuK4excFKzB_jFy4A7EIfL0K5XxtMX6yBXVYWKRFClbHaZTr-Ibc/s1600/paintings+on+glass+143.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
This is another painting directly on mirror. The mirror appears bare mostly towards the center of the piece, but as a linear device throughout. Indeed, it might be described as being carved or incised as much as it is painted. Along with a painting called a "Baroque Mirror"--which will appear elsewhere--it is one of the most elaborate that I did using this technique..<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOYE5zi5e2710lHZE22TQ8QlbP8ckCFYeugBTZq19KbXr-5HJwloHNpSnq0v_7akaXh6AObn1Fo1ldopsw5yk9HuVSir3AO5GNIcDKsjPBOJvMt7kb3JJAXwnI-GDv5yYjujwaQFO9yUo/s1600/paintings+on+glass+080.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOYE5zi5e2710lHZE22TQ8QlbP8ckCFYeugBTZq19KbXr-5HJwloHNpSnq0v_7akaXh6AObn1Fo1ldopsw5yk9HuVSir3AO5GNIcDKsjPBOJvMt7kb3JJAXwnI-GDv5yYjujwaQFO9yUo/s1600/paintings+on+glass+080.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
This is a detail of the center.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLKXvLHZYB-LsDjNONHEp4KrG2fnIu-F-CV0S8_TeneyO-bepj1wUGjZqSVR4-LVkdcF-YkMy6-CmZTs9aWkdwDshVtwp1nX0GA7r0y9Wv1T7yOCiAMlfAUxmn7DpUGGVbLlMlA3mrTJM/s1600/paintings+on+glass+148.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLKXvLHZYB-LsDjNONHEp4KrG2fnIu-F-CV0S8_TeneyO-bepj1wUGjZqSVR4-LVkdcF-YkMy6-CmZTs9aWkdwDshVtwp1nX0GA7r0y9Wv1T7yOCiAMlfAUxmn7DpUGGVbLlMlA3mrTJM/s1600/paintings+on+glass+148.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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And this is a closer viewer of the left side.</div>
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These were an attempt to transistorize the multiple layer technique of my screen paintings, which are my real center, as well as an attempt to make sense of my dream of the Foundry. Let me add that I do not believe that such a dream is meant to be taken literally. It would pain me to feel that I was consigning my dead to the fire. If anything, these were the fires which I passed through.</div>
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(the first painting is 12'x12' and is painted on copper mirrored tile; the second is 8'x 10" and consists of a windowpane painted on two sides backed by a mirror; the following two paintings are 8 x 12" and consist of two window panes painted on both sides backed with a mirror of the same size; the final painting on mirror is 18''x 25")</div>
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phillip larrimorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747987191464459195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7616340615460605880.post-52218757644266999902014-03-08T06:29:00.000-08:002014-03-08T06:29:17.673-08:00A SUBAQUATIC PARADISE<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVHWnrii06x8fxgYXAFyBC7X21Y5Aeb38uZe9NE3VE5ZEmz8KSCO49UOwqDflsNn_lzhkUOdMrKGWGnGeQ4nyo9ZVz6-u2hDRKdaQbKx-9Z9QjJ4VUdtyNQBtjYL5jGgTGzaPhMhTqsWQ/s1600/coral+gardens+004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVHWnrii06x8fxgYXAFyBC7X21Y5Aeb38uZe9NE3VE5ZEmz8KSCO49UOwqDflsNn_lzhkUOdMrKGWGnGeQ4nyo9ZVz6-u2hDRKdaQbKx-9Z9QjJ4VUdtyNQBtjYL5jGgTGzaPhMhTqsWQ/s1600/coral+gardens+004.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
Most explanations of why an artist does this or that strike me as retrospective wisdom. I can rationalize why<br />
some things bore me and other things haunt me, but I am always aware of something cobbled together<br />
about this. There was,.for example, some childhood festivity-- perhaps a birthday party which misfired--that lies behind my dislike of all things connected with stadiums, mass rallies, patriotism, ideologues, church services, advertisements, conga lines,prayer breakfasts, etcetera. It is why I hate the "Ode to Joy", which seems to me the prologue to a pogrom, though I revere the Beethoven sonatas and quartets.<br />
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But this is to dwell on what I loathe, which is not my intention. The things that haunt me are as enigmatic.<br />
The image of coral gardens which re-appear like a string of islands in an archipelago through my paintings and drawings probably began<br />
with waking dreams in my early childhood of being under the sea. Was this due to a traumatic exposure to Disney's Pinocchio? Perhaps. But I didn't dream of growing donkey ears, or of other Disney characters--Snow White or Dumbo or Lady and the Tramp.<br />
<br />
This buried image quickened many years later--if my recollections don't deceived me--when I was in love with a beautiful blonde socialite, who described scuba diving in the coral reefs of Australia to me.<br />
We also talked that day of the blues in the stained glass windows of Chartres, which have never been duplicated or equaled ,and these also merged into the image of her as an Aphrodite in the reef-strewn sea.<br />
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Two poems which I discovered at that time intertwined with this image. One was Laforgues' Flora and Fauna of the Moon which Guy Davenport "collaged" into scene of love-making in his story "The Dawn in Erewhon", and which appears in his collection TAITLIN. It ends,<br />
"We will return and press the question, ah!<br />
When we have understood the coral isle."<br />
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The other was from Marianne Moore's "Peoples' Surroundings",<br />
"And Bluebeard's Tower above the coral reefs,<br />
the magic mousetrap closing on all points of the compass,<br />
capping like petrified surf the furious azure of the bay,<br />
where there is no smoke and life is like a lemon leaf,<br />
a green piece of tough translucent parchment,<br />
where the crimson, the copper, and the Chinese<br />
vermillion of the poincianas<br />
set fire to the masonry and turquoise blues refute the clock..."<br />
<br />
These became almost verbal emblems of an elusive image of paradise felt as much as seen, a blue-green<br />
subaquatic world remote from the mundane concerns of Manhattan, which I tried to bring to the fore-<br />
ground of my own imagination. It seems rather grand to call it a "motif"--but what else to call it, though.?<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTDJ1TUUIqYuuMe0EL25BAxCNVOQGd_EMExLrj3m1tq6L7-S1aNq-1VepyWLO4J2khyphenhyphen6u-f4kHbo9QyN1o1dUE6PrU1IG8BKH2urQH-rbqMboiUbSDKGCP_vhBCSxLaWXG04HUTuXbFdo/s1600/new+fog+drawings+033.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTDJ1TUUIqYuuMe0EL25BAxCNVOQGd_EMExLrj3m1tq6L7-S1aNq-1VepyWLO4J2khyphenhyphen6u-f4kHbo9QyN1o1dUE6PrU1IG8BKH2urQH-rbqMboiUbSDKGCP_vhBCSxLaWXG04HUTuXbFdo/s1600/new+fog+drawings+033.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a>Though my socialite soon went on her blonde way into circles more moneyed than I'll ever be, she remains more than a memory, a near presence recurring unexpectedly in poems, paintings and<br />
drawings.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJq_A7x7E6lwO0J_rY43TXtoz61WVeiucO2k0qPpnmsNw4VZAcnIgv0sbyI4gmvEmMw7QyeYfCkrEQxqdEDXv6OrY994nfBFJ982mhTMekOU88vMEByM_1VzXaRbCRqlfr9XFuVHDMMtM/s1600/new+fog+drawings+034.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJq_A7x7E6lwO0J_rY43TXtoz61WVeiucO2k0qPpnmsNw4VZAcnIgv0sbyI4gmvEmMw7QyeYfCkrEQxqdEDXv6OrY994nfBFJ982mhTMekOU88vMEByM_1VzXaRbCRqlfr9XFuVHDMMtM/s1600/new+fog+drawings+034.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU8Gk2cmDuBr6XNXNU9R_A0M51hn43GQJobk2HzuD8xpLekAiGX2a3hlR3gHbIbG-mIGZXSISDkRPxx9oaWDepBaXGX-MZ3sASwJGXU5LECZhQ9TPvvt9KjvTyeRFDtDZeu4iM66RdO-o/s1600/new+fog+drawings+038.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU8Gk2cmDuBr6XNXNU9R_A0M51hn43GQJobk2HzuD8xpLekAiGX2a3hlR3gHbIbG-mIGZXSISDkRPxx9oaWDepBaXGX-MZ3sASwJGXU5LECZhQ9TPvvt9KjvTyeRFDtDZeu4iM66RdO-o/s1600/new+fog+drawings+038.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
(the first image is of a small painting using enamel on copper mirrored tiling; the following group of three<br />
images are of a painting/construction done in 2008 using three differently shaped and painted layers of aluminum screening. the first of these three images is of the painting entire; the two after are of details.<br />
It is 30"x long by 23" wide)<br />
<br />phillip larrimorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747987191464459195noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7616340615460605880.post-58757462461240432802014-03-04T08:18:00.000-08:002014-03-04T08:18:21.606-08:00CORAL GARDENS<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvlsJPmNrpPfW1pLsSpE2BoOY1S1hvBPymw_riwEeAHxrfDe4dyYqLg9jUWxScuVaduJmJeY9ityine_NSyi8wXmGDnMChVxm_rRntAJgSJwCarclQmq92VAr5VQV2KqoHxVnweH7fCcI/s1600/ink+drawings+032.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvlsJPmNrpPfW1pLsSpE2BoOY1S1hvBPymw_riwEeAHxrfDe4dyYqLg9jUWxScuVaduJmJeY9ityine_NSyi8wXmGDnMChVxm_rRntAJgSJwCarclQmq92VAr5VQV2KqoHxVnweH7fCcI/s1600/ink+drawings+032.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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Another recurring motif, the coral gardens, for those times that I wished to swim away from sturm und drang<br />
and theology. The coral gardens were (and are) for me a subaquatic paradise mercifully free of Jehovah<br />
and his surly ways, a dominion (like the greenhouse) of Aphrodite's. Also an opportunity to populate the page with sea creatures, schools of fishes, pagodas of albino white or alizarine crimson--etc. I trace<br />
the motif back to my earliest childhood, when I was convinced that I woke up under the sea.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSd54f21XiARjbQbq1A151IE4eIORDGR7XhCXiWLG9UjBighqW7cN-kKlPskzJrRei9mshrkxOx6QsMP7B7i_4GNJJ13oCVe05XPVRoveR9H7rY8MdaCoddZqqVFLxL27W_Zemj2969qI/s1600/ink+drawings+012.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSd54f21XiARjbQbq1A151IE4eIORDGR7XhCXiWLG9UjBighqW7cN-kKlPskzJrRei9mshrkxOx6QsMP7B7i_4GNJJ13oCVe05XPVRoveR9H7rY8MdaCoddZqqVFLxL27W_Zemj2969qI/s1600/ink+drawings+012.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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I remember seeing the nightlight sink from view as the walls began to waver and the silvery fishes<br />
flicker into existence as my crib floated away. There was the fear of the hammerhead shark<br />
lying in wait down the watery corridor of our house on Perkins street, in Newton, Mass.,<br />
the robed figures ascending and descending the stairway. (This may have been the traumatic result<br />
of seeing Pinocchio, with its underwater scenes--I was also persuaded that the spoons and the dishes<br />
held nightly dances on the sly, and that this was something the grown ups had willfully stonewalled<br />
--but I digress)<br />
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the first two coral gardens are from 1996, the third from 1987; the theme re-appears in paintings of mine as well, which will presently appear on these pages.phillip larrimorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747987191464459195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7616340615460605880.post-81995499859924988642014-02-27T16:39:00.000-08:002014-02-27T16:39:21.612-08:00 FAITH WITHOUT BELIEF:FROM THE JOURNAL OF 1999<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Riding one's own mind---at some point during the day or night I will close my eyes<br />
and view the foreground of thought, which is not thought at all , but a spinning diamond<br />
emerging from the waves or mist in washes of color.<br />
<br />
Parked there at the promontory, I will begin to see the light and study it, really, for the<br />
next clue of what to do and how to do it. This is mainly for painting, because the inward<br />
voice to which I used to attend is mostly hushed now. It does not feel gone, departed,<br />
nor do I feel abandoned as much as at another stage, dry when I was once drenched,<br />
temperate rather than tempest tossed. Is this something to be afraid of?<br />
<br />
Well, I do feel remote, on my own, without mysticism or myth, but retaining some sense<br />
of keeping faith with I know not what. Yet I must keep faith and I will.<br />
<br />
Oliver Sacks connects such idioretinal imagery with migraines, as Hildegarde von Bingen<br />
connected them will mystical ecstasy. I myself connect them with a voyage into some<br />
realm --perhaps my own neurological processes, perhaps the inner locality where<br />
these processes connect with information on the airwaves, television, radio, other<br />
peoples' thoughts--the place where ideas form and alternately disperse.<br />
<br />
But here here is no proof or interpretation which can be confirmed or refuted., merely<br />
myriad images from which I draw some subject matter and a kind of peace.<br />
<br />
I am aware that some call this "God" but I am opposed to calling it anything.<br />
Whatever we call "God" is something more and something less than an entity.<br />
It is not so separate after all, or so different from us, though we are different<br />
from what we think we know. It will not rescue us from the hands of evil,<br />
or spare us sorrow but it does pose an alternative in the midst of sorrow.<br />
Therefore I may maintain an equilibrium.<br />
<br />
2.<br />
There among the tattered blowsy pink romance novels and self help books<br />
and discarded manuals for professions of a Bartleby-the-Scrivener-like inconsequence<br />
at the Library's perpetual book sale is a copy of Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet<br />
to be had for a quarter.<br />
<br />
I reread it over a sandwich wondering at the firm belief in the efficacy of solitude and<br />
the eventual arrival of the God to come.<br />
<br />
It is enough to make me weep--if I might weep--at the diminished world,<br />
for I have paid the price both in the lawful coin of the realm and in the petty<br />
tariffs excised on the backroads of mere survival. Yes, it is true, I think,<br />
reading Rilke, except in the reckoning of the expense.This can not be known<br />
beforehand.<br />
<br />
<i>Remember the little apartment on Golden Gate, that nightly voice always calling,calling</i><br />
<i>your name, always recognized as hallucinatory, and yet responded to each night</i><br />
<i> by going to the window never-the-less? Or those nightmare days following Jamal's death?</i><br />
This is also the efficacy of solitude.<br />
<br />
<i>Those glimmerings of poetry like a gas-jet burning low are the only consolation--that and</i><br />
<i>walks in parks where it is always autumn.</i><br />
<br />
<i>Beyond the plate-glass window, it is always masculine and heartily convivial, or</i><br />
<i>sleek and chic, or clever and deeply profane in a business-like way, for the</i><br />
<i>whore World must be paid. And there is some illicit relationship between the</i><br />
<i>gladiatorial spectacular and the grommet counting of slaves but this you will never</i><br />
<i>comprehend.</i><br />
<br />
<i>And that perpetual sense of a vibration--the gods just about to rain down,</i><br />
<i>cleansing the picture--will not keep you fed. For that you must scrub pots and</i><br />
<i>crockery, and then footwearily tread a narrow stair,, or shovel gravel all the day</i>. This is<br />
also solitude.<br />
<br />
What Rilke could not do was abolish the coin of the realm, and all the transactions<br />
connected with it.<br />
<br />
Now I find a beauty in the onerous, and no longer care--not perpetually,<br />
though there is a wist--for the absence of an interlocutor or perfected understanding.<br />
. <br />
Yes, we would be understood, and on our own terms, and in our own language<br />
--but this is a chimaera, and will not come. To know this and try to act with loving<br />
kindness, even to smile, and be amused, is what I try to do.<br />
Is this the God to come? Not quite.<br />
<br />
3.<br />
Not quite, because as much as one would stand outside of time, this is<br />
merely the illusion of a mood, an attitude, and one is in time all the while<br />
and of it. The ruin is not atemporal. It can crumble further, and it will. I, too,<br />
will vanish.<br />
<br />
Nor would I want an eternal life if it consist of my limited self,<br />
my personality, my foibles. My memories would be insufferable stretched<br />
to eternity, like a rubber band spanning the equator.<br />
<br />
Fortunately, memories are eclipsed by others. I behold who I was then<br />
and wonder.<br />
<br />
Or rather, I wonder at why this or that would have shaken me, why<br />
love was such a flagellation, and grief paralysis, and delusion rife.<br />
Why I placed trust in something I inwardly knew to be false and then<br />
was disappointed.... Misplaced faith I wonder at, and the haplessness<br />
of Rilkean solitude, waiting for the angel on some cold concrete bench<br />
the fallen leaves of November at one's feet as practical matters are<br />
engulfed in a whirl pool and sink.<br />
<br />
Letters unwritten and letters un-mailed I wonder at,too, and the weird<br />
variety of omens fabricated from cracks in the sidewalk or a scrap<br />
of newspaper momentarily whirled upward by the wind while in flight.<br />
Music heard as an unearthly visitant, the step on the threshold foretold<br />
--never to fall-- I recall from a thousand times. It had meaning ,yes,but<br />
no interpretation was true. Landscapes that seemed to open onto<br />
a new era closed as I passed through.<i> It was a glory to behold them</i><br />
<i> but not mine </i>phillip larrimorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747987191464459195noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7616340615460605880.post-62931386283493104802014-02-22T08:42:00.001-08:002014-02-22T08:42:51.493-08:00THE DZHIR DRAWINGS :A STORM OF THE SOUL<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/AVvXsEjHCNSShA-1T9b1ivtXd195qJK0IyuIwaXh1nW066ETlX_Aw4OM-7TLAQVGHoBkAz5SDTUeIb7r6ZK0qgpF5i4T8a7D2veR0ngW-ELCQldrlyCTqrWxwEZ0JdI9jagDsQ5epF2tHFUhf80/s1600/pictures+nov+040.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHCNSShA-1T9b1ivtXd195qJK0IyuIwaXh1nW066ETlX_Aw4OM-7TLAQVGHoBkAz5SDTUeIb7r6ZK0qgpF5i4T8a7D2veR0ngW-ELCQldrlyCTqrWxwEZ0JdI9jagDsQ5epF2tHFUhf80/s1600/pictures+nov+040.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">I have been asked about the early sources of these Dzhir drawings. To begin with,<br />the study of Leonardo's deluge drawings--which I was fortunate enough to see when they were brought to the Metropolitan Museum. I was especially fascinated by their seeming to animate before my eyes,<br />and I studied the currents of the Hudson River, and the breakers of the Atlantic, trying to ascertain how Leonardo had done this.</span></td></tr>
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Kenneth Clark, in his monograph on Leonardo, supposes that Leonardo saw faster than anyone else.<br />
As a result, for a while I tried to speed my sight, but this proved unavailing. Then, I began to practise seeing more and more slowly. Over time, I learned to slow my heartbeat, and my breath, and view a rising falling wave in increasingly slow motion. Then I began to X ray the wave--to see(metaphor) the ball bearings beneath its back and forth.<br />
<br />
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This procedure lead to other experiments, which I will describe elsewhere. The main thing was that the study of Leonardo's drawings was where I began. At some point, the deluge became metaphoric for me, unlike Leonardo's hydraulic studies, for example. Instead, I found myself depicting a storm of the soul. </div>
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This drawing is from July 1998, the same time as most of the previous drawings in this series of little essays. The first photograph is of it in its entirety; those after are sectional details. </div>
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phillip larrimorehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13747987191464459195noreply@blogger.com0