|new yorker | sep 13, 2010|
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Wherever you turn your eyes, there is no portion of the world that does not exhibit some sparks of beauty. It is impossible to contemplate the vast and beautiful fabric without being overwhelmed by the immense weight of glory.
Institutes of the Christian Religion
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Accessible is a perfectly good word if applied to supermarket aisles, art galleries, polling stations and public lavatories, but it has no place in the discussion of poetry and poetics. Human beings are difficult. We're difficult to ourselves; we're difficult to each other and we are mysteries to ourselves; we are mysteries to each other. One encounters in any ordinary day far more real difficulty than one confronts in the most "intellectual" piece of work. Why is it believed that poetry, prose, painting, music should be less than we are? Why does music, why does poetry have to address us in simplified terms, when, if such simplifications were applied to our own inner selves, we would find it demeaning?
Professor of Poetry, Oxford University
from "Who's Afraid Of Geoffrey Hill?" by Gregory Wolfe, Image Journal, Summer 2010
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
I took these photos during a visit to Betty Spackman's Fort Langley studio in February of this year. The first ten images are elements of the "Found Wanting" project, in progress at that time. The rest are general shots of the artist's studio. The completed installation is presently showing at the Penticton Art Gallery, where it will run until November 7. In 2011 it moves to the Reach Gallery in Abbotsford, opening January 27.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Monday, September 06, 2010
Play matters because, against the gray backdrop of a jobbing sky, play is the rainbow, is energy, is wicked flirtatiousness, is the helplessly laughing, the leglessly laddered, the God of Things which Brimmeth Over, the pint down the pub, the de trop overflow of excess, the resplendently unnecessary and the one-too-many which make the whole damn thing worthwhile. Play is harvest, is abundance, is generosity, the harvest of pleasure after work, the excess and the gusto, the more-than-enough, the gifts, the spirit of exchange. To play a game is, in German ein Spiel spielen, and the brimmingness, the spilling-over abundance of play is mirrored in this brimming-over phrase: spill it, spiel it twice — just for fun.
A Sideways Look at Time
photo | lantern, public dreams society | folk festival 2010
Sunday, September 05, 2010
"And then it happened, that queer sensation that this melody was bigger than me. Maybe I hadn't written it at all. The recollection of how, when and where it all happened became vague as the lingering strains hung in the rafters of the studio. I wanted to shout back at it, 'Maybe I didn't write you, but I found you.' "