concretekiss: (Default)
Everything feels so half finished. Even my thoughts are fragmented. Sentences are abandoned for others only barely airborn. I am having problems being In the Moment. Like right now I am worried about how cluttered the house is, my fingernails have paint under them which looks like I've been playing w poo, or if I should go to the park, or what ever happened to the night blooming cereus that was stolen from my stoop years ago when I lived in shanty town. I worry the internet has made my mind as wavering as a weathervane with all this clickery. I worry that society today with its latest scandal lifestyle, its ultra mega convenient super disposable, handy newer newest thing is losing focus and no one takes the time to notice, perfectly. Or they do, briefly before moving on to the next momentarily big thing. Look at all those pronouns. So anyway, huh? (I need to get started on those pork chops for dinner)

Artists, men of learning, and enlightened prelates were fascinated by the robust and bewildering art of Caravaggio, but the negative reaction of church officials reflected the self-protective irritation of academic painters and the instinctive resistance of the more conservative clergy and much of the populace. The more brutal aspects of Caravaggio's paintings were condemned partly because Caravaggio's common people bear no relation to the graceful suppliants popular in much of Counter-Reformation art. They are plain working men, muscular, stubborn, and tenacious.

Caravaggio was a 16th century painter/bar brawler whose realism was celebrated as well as reviled. His painting of a boy with a basket of fruit was so detailed as to impart each leaf's stain, each skin's bruise and flaw.
He went on to glorify freckles like stars, paint harlots as virgins, peasants as noblemen, and retained his naturalist convictions under the pressures of poverty and to the disdain of art scholars. (Netflix is totally fleecing me.) He was a passionate and hot tempered man. He slept with weapons, murdered men in quarrels, fled the law and enemies from city to city, painting by lantern light behind closed shudders, whores and vagrants as royalty. His pieces surfaced in wealthy estates like messages on shore lines.

His paintings now resound for me in a way they never have since I've began reading about his life. I am often so affected by the biographies of artists that their work visually or audibly changes. Hindsight can tarnish or enhance the past depending on what is discovered. I am conflicted as to if an artist's biography should be avoided or sought, integrated or kept separate from the work, like church and state, though both so often influence the other. and as well, each are their own pieces of art. (Should I give up on looking good in boots?)

My latest thing is pretending I am going on a trip far far away. Looking up hotel rates in Verona, Athens or Rio de Janiero. Finding an arresting landscape photograph and following it to the job market, airline tickets, real estate. It's exciting for a moment, the things one can do from bed with the push of a button. (It could be safe to say that across the sea, a ship carries a Lexus to a trophy wife who is making dinner plans at this moment.) (What am I doing with my life?) (Do I have any broccoli?)
concretekiss: (Default)
Summer involves so much leg shaving
O my American problems

If one were fully dominated by only one side of his brain, he would have difficulty walking, or one leg and arm would have to drag the dead side around. Though we prefer one hand to the other, the less-dominant one must plod along in its rudimentary fashion to keep up. The simpler, gawky, attention deficient side of himself.
I read long ago that our brains cycle through hemispheres every couple of hours, and can be tricked to shift focus. Like when you notice your handwriting is suddenly getting sloppy, yet your hand is not tired, it can mean you have switched to the other side of your brain, idling. I found that I could reverse the change by holding one side of my nose and breathing through the other.
Imagine using nasal blockage to aid certain emotional functions or hone mental focus.
If the right brain is for creativity, art, emotion, music and intuition, you could plug your right nostril before going to the museum and concerts, painting a picture, or writing a poem for optimal perception and enjoyment? As well, if the left brain controls analytic thought, logic, science and math, a marshmallow in the left nostril might help when sitting down to balance a checkbook, refinance a car, study for a physics exam.
Or ultimately, I am an over-romanticizer.

Even the most adept side of my body cannot keep up with my brain, here lately. Lovers, I have missed you, but am often too exhausted to post, and don't know where to begin.

By day I am juggling two part time jobs, framing artwork and minding the flower shop.
Latenight I am folding horses and butterflies, sleeping with books, I kick them out of my bed dreaming, and wake by their thumps to the floor. Shifting more creative focus to speaking in colors and shapes, I've ignored poetry in words for almost a year now, and lately, as you may have noticed, have been fascinated with the female form in art/illustration. Undeniably, it is inspiring )

To break my spell, I want to depict a modern city in ruins next, culling ideas from D's post about daydreaming habits, photos from abandonedplaces, remembering how voracious the flora was in the Pacific Northwest. I will give it a lone barn owl, maybe.

Looking for examples of lost cities, I learned that beginning around 1923, a 5ft, 100 lb. man, named Ed Leedskalnin worked alone by lantern light after dark for 28 years, building a monument to a woman who left him at the altar. Constructed from limestone blocks, some weighing over 13 tons. He called it the Coral Castle.

I love the resolution in his jaw.

Even Einstein was unable to understand just how Mr. Leedskalnin moved and carved the great stones, as small as he stood, supposedly alone, and with only a few primitive tools. He fashioned a sundial, the nine planets on pillars, a colossal throne, a 9 ton door that could be turned open with the push of a finger.
Interesting to me, there is little to be said regarding the girl for whom the castle was built, Agnes Scuffs, who never once came to see. Scientists and engineers preferred to marvel Ed's secret levitation abilities, over the weight of Agnes' heart.


concretekiss: (Default)

August 2010



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