BirchLane.org
October
Thursday 31
Happy Halloween. Maybe more than any other holiday, maybe more than even Christmas, Halloween brings back a flood of memories of our children. (MORE COMING)
Danielle and Daryl 1991
Wednesday 30
Searching For Questions. When I read what Bobbi wrote yesterday ("So I'm a photoblog now?") I had to laugh. (MORE COMING)
Large version here.
Tuesday 29
Looking. The backyard at BirchLane. And what brought me to the backyard was the three mile walk I took to pick up my car. (MORE COMING)
Large version here.
Monday 28
Visible Light. Today I finished reading a fascinating book, a book I believe I have had for well over 20 years: "Visible Light, Four Creative Biographies" by Michael Lesy. In the book, Lesy traces the intricate connection between the lives of four photographers and their work: a recluse who thought he was an angel; a traveling portrait photographer who took pictures of people who looked as damaged as he felt; a landscape photographer whose work led him to give up art and become a sailor; and a woman whose photographs record her descent into depravity, her subsequent religious conversion, and the transformation of her life and art.
Sunday 27
The Golden Thread. In church today our minister talked about love being the golden thread that binds people together.
Mt. Holyoke College Pond
Saturday 26
A Presence with Love. There was a birthday party for my Dad tonight at my brother's house in West Hartford. He turned 80. The house was full of relatives and friends and in addition to my brother and sisters giving a short toast, my nephew, Chris, said a few wonderful words about my Dad:
Pops, we see lots of grandfathers portrayed in movies and TV and if there was a perfect image of a grandfather you would be, are, that man. Your constant love and concern for your family. It is a testament to you that so many family members and friends are here tonight. You have taught us the value, importance of family. You have always been such a strong presence in our lives. I remember you taking me for walks when I was a little boy, coming to my Little League Baseball games, and always being there to offer help, to love. Pops, we love you. Happy Birthday.
With my great grandfather.
Friday 25
Do Tool and Thomas Cole Have Anything in Common? Quoting Grace Glueck writing in The New York Times (9/13/02) in an art review entitled, "Hymning a Mountain in Many Views," which talks about the exhibition "Changing Prospects: The View from Mount Holyoke" (Mount Holyoke College Art Museum, South Hadley, MA 9/3--12/8):
It's really a minimoutain, as those things go---an overgrown hill 960 feet high. But Mount Holyoke, in Northampton, Massachusetts, a part of the Holyoke Range in the western part of the state, looms large in local history and legend. Rising rather abruptly from flattish plains, the mount rewards the climber with a spectacular panorama of the Connecticut River Valley and surrounding peaks...... The river's digression, called the Oxbow, became on of the painted and photographed sites of the Connecticut Valley, and in 1936 Cole (1801-1848) produced a famous image of it from the mountain's slope. Title "View from Mount Holyoke, Northampton, Massachusetts, After a Thunderstorm (The Oxbow)," the monumental painting today considered on of the finest American Landscapes, was acquired by the Metropolitan Museum.
And quoting from the exhibition brochure:
As a popular destination and subject for writers and artists, especially in the nineteenth century, the mountain gained status as a national cultural icon......Literary visitors included Ralph Waldo Emerson and Nathaniel Hawthorne......At the height of its popularity, in the second half of the nineteenth century, the site hosted notable visitors such as Swedish opera star Lind (who dubbed the region "the Paradise of America") and poet Henry W. Longfellow......An 1887 advertising brochure illustrated Mt. Holyoke's tourist facilities, while emphasizing the special qualities of the view: "Many other peaks have a higher attitude and offer a wider and more unmixed natural scenery -- but not other blends in its wide prospect so much that is rich in soil and cultivation, or presents so much agricultural wealth of beauty, mingled with so much that is wildly majestic, grand and inspiring." A photo taken outside the Mount Holyoke College Art Museum:
Please look at the larger version here. Thank You.
And when I returned home, inspired, I saw this solitary leaf stuck on a birch tree in our yard.
S where does TOOL play in this tale of inspiration? I took Daryl to see TOOL tonight--his first concert--at UMASS Amherst. It was a spectacular concert and Maynard, the singer said:
I hope we have been a source of inspiration for you tonight. Remember to think for yourself. Use this feeling of inspiration to create something positive in the coming days, weeks, years. Thursday 24
You Are Not I.
You are not I. No one but me could possibly be. I know that, and I know where I have been and what I have done since yesterday..
~Paul Bowles, "You Are Not I"
Larger image here.
Wednesday 23
Breathe Deeply and Live Forever. I asked him what his cards were used for. He said, "I tell stories." I asked him, "Will you tell me a story." Bison, that was his name, said I should choose one card from each of two decks. I did and Bison said, "You have chosen two very distinct cards. The animal pictured, the dog, is a very special dog as it is surrounded completely by beauty--and truth--and we see an abundance of life surrounding him. He is a symbol of devotion. Of Love. And coupled with the other card he becomes an even greater symbol, a greater dog, for we learn and remember the celebration of unconditional love; the importance of unconditional love; the dog reminds us of this great truth." A great truth to hold tight in one's heart and soul.
I thanked him and he said "Breathe deeply and live forever." I asked him if he would play his flute for me and I mentioned to him Phil James and his record label and I took one last photograph.
Tuesday 22
Are You Sure It Is Me? I was looking through some old slides the other night and I came across an old photo of my friend Cindy. I e-mailed it to Cindy and she wrote back "are you sure it is me?" I thought that was funny. Her daughter later said "Yes, Mom, that is you." Of course, many years have passed and we have grown older; certainly I now posses more pounds and less hair! But the truth remains; the friendship, the love we will always have for each other. Betsy must have taken this photo. We stand in our apartment in Hoboken, New Jersey circa 1984.
Monday 21
A Journey. I went for a ride in the car today. I stopped first in Easthampton to look at this new restaurant that recently opened in an old factory building which is being converted into apartments and artist studios. I was struck by the functionality of the sign.
Late in the day I drove through Florence to see the new statue of Sojourner Truth.
And minutes before I picked up Daryl at soccer practice I stopped at Look Park to see the ducks.
Sunday 20
Migration Morning. When I was out this morning walking Daisy along BirchLane
I witnessed a small miracle. It was early. It was cold. But the sky was slowly turning bright blue. And the leaves were ablaze. It was quiet. In the distance I heard geese. Honk. Honk. Honk. And moments later when they flew over my head and Daisy's head, too, I could hear the beating of their wings and the wings seemed to say
wish wish
wish wish
wish wish
Saturday 19
Still In The Woods.
The Road Not Taken
Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yes knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I --
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the differenceFriday 18
An Atlas of the Difficult Word. I had plans all week to hear Adrienne Rich read today at Smith College, but I was out hiking/walking the trails at Fitzgerald Lake and the day was bright and beautiful and the leaves were ablaze and it was quiet (except for the chatter of the chipmunks and the falling acorns) and I thought to myself I love these trails and I love this autumn air and I need to stay here:
But here is an excerpt from an Adrienne Rich poem, "An Atlas of the Difficult World:"
Here is a map of our country:
here is the Sea of Indifference, glazed with salt
This is the haunted river flowing from brow to groin
we dare not taste its water
This is the desert where missiles are planted like corms
This is the breadbasket of foreclosed farms
This is the birthplace of the rockabilly boy
This is the cemetery of the poor
who died for democracy This is a battlefield
from a nineteenth-century war the shrine is famous
This is the sea-town of myth and story when the fishing fleets
went bankrupt here is where the jobs were on the pier
processing frozen fishsticks hourly wages and no shares
These are other battlefields Centralia Detroit
here are the forests primeval the copper the silver lodes
These are the suburbs of acquiescence silence rising fumelike from the streets
This is the capital of money and dolor whose spires
flare up through air inversions whose bridges are crumbling
whose children are drifting blind alleys pent
between coiled rolls of razor wire
I promised to show you a map you say but this is a mural
then yes let it be these are small distinctions
where do we see it from is the questionAnd this:
I know you are reading this poem late, before leaving your office of the one intense yellow lamp-spot and the darkening window in the lassitude of a building faded to quiet long after rush-hour. I know you are reading this poem standing up in a bookstore far from the ocean on a grey day of early spring, faint flakes driven across the plains' enormous spaces around you. I know you are reading this poem in a room where too much has happened for you to bear where the bedclothes lie in stagnant coils on the bed and the open valise speaks of flight but you cannot leave yet. I know you are reading this poem as the underground train loses momentum and before running up the stairs toward a new kind of love your life has never allowed. I know you are reading this poem by the light of the television screen where soundless images jerk and slide while you wait for the newscast from the intifada. I know you are reading this poem in a waiting-room of eyes met and unmeeting, of identity with strangers. I know you are reading this poem by fluorescent light in the boredom and fatigue of the young who are counted out, count themselves out, at too early an age. I know you are reading this poem through your failing sight, the thick lens enlarging these letters beyond all meaning yet you read on because even the alphabet is precious. I know you are reading this poem as you pace beside the stove warming milk, a crying child on your shoulder, a book in your hand because life is short and you too are thirsty. I know you are reading this poem which is not in your language guessing at some words while others keep you reading and I want to know which words they are. I know you are reading this poem listening for something, torn between bitterness and hope turning back once again to the task you cannot refuse. I know you are reading this poem because there is nothing else left to read there where you have landed, stripped as you are.
Thursday 17
Job Interview with Photographs. Two hour story in two minutes: the drive to Providence, Rhode Island, was beautiful; the sky was bright blue and the leaves were ablaze; I saw many interesting old buildings and signs I would have liked to stop and take photographs of; at one point I had to jam on my breaks to take a photograph of this. I had never been to Providence before and I was struck by many of the beautiful old stores. Unfortunately I did not have time to visit any art galleries as I had to hurry home after my interview for Daryl's soccer game but after getting peed upon taking this photo. I saw this interesting sculpture outside, near The Biltmore hotel, where I was headed for my interview. But I was an hour early so I continued to explore this fascinating section of Providence where I soon discovered this. Jump forward two hours and I ask Terry, the man who flew up from Louisville, Kentucky, to interview me, "Where do we go from here?" And Terry says, "Bruce I am very impressed with you. I feel very positive. I think you probably are a very good salesperson and I imagine your customers love you, love working with you. I have to go to San Francisco for a few days but I'll get back to you tomorrow after I talk about you with some people back in Kentucky. I imagine we'll be flying you down in a few weeks." I hope so. And--so, one last photo; me with portrait of Ursula; I am playing around with different size photos and mattes for my hoped for show in the Spring.
Wednesday 16
Another Walk in the Woods.
Tuesday 15
Fitzgerald Lake. I think my favorite photo from today's walk in the woods, well, my two favorite photos follow:
The long waves glide in through the afternoon
while we watch from the island
from the cool shadow under the trees where the long ridge
a fold in the skirt of the mountain
runs down to the end of the headlandday after day we wake to the island
the light rises through the drops on the leaves
and we remember like birds where we are
night after night we touch the dark island
that once we set out forand lie still at last with the island in our arms
hearing the leaves and the breathing shore
there are no years any more
only the one mountain
and on all sides the sea that brought us~W.S. Merwin
Large versions of both photos can be found here and here.
Monday 14
Wind / Spirit / Inspire / Inspiration. Yesterday in church was Laity Sunday and our guest lay preacher was Floyd Cheung, a professor of English from Smith College. He talked about the concept of Carpe Diem and did so by quoting the following Andrew Marvell poem, "To His Coy Mistress:"
HAD we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, Lady, were no crime
We would sit down and think which way
To walk and pass our long love's day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, Lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear
Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song: then worms shall try
That long preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust:
The grave 's a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapt power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.He asked if our lives were pointless. No. He quoted some verses from the bible and talked about wind, as in the spirit of God blows over the waters, the breath of life, wind that heals, inspires, to breathe in, inspiration. To live as though we are inspired.
Amen-si-ya-ku-du-mi-sa.
Sunday 13
Mother Peace. Is peace out of the question?
I took this photo a few years ago at Storm King. Daryl stands in front of the Mark di Suvero sculpture, "Mother Peace."
Saturday 12
Rain On The Roof. So often when it rains, as it did today, all day, the lyrics to this old Lovin' Spoonful (John Sebastian) song come to mind:
You and me and rain on the roof
Caught up in a summer shower
Dryin' while it soaks the flowers
Maybe we'll be caught for hours
Waitin' out the sun
You and me were gabbin' away
Dreamy conversation sittin' in the hay
Honey, how long was I laughing in the rain with you
'Cause I didn't feel a drop 'til the thunder brought us to
You and me underneath the roof of tin
Pretty comfy feelin' how the rain ain't leakin' in
We can sit and dry just as long as it can pour
'Cause the way it makes you look makes me hope it rains some more
Friday 11
The Journals. I have been rereading the last book of poems by Paul Blackburn, "The Journals." My brother, Dennis, gave it to me for a Christmas present back in 1978. Here is some of what Dennis inscribed in the book:
jotted in notebooks
the everyday
exalted
the gifts you have given
and those still to give
so you see how it continues
must
Birch Lane From Bedroom Window This Morning
And, here, a sampling of Paul Blackburn, who died of cancer in 1971. He was born on November 24, 1926, in St. Albans, Vermont. He spent his youth in Vermont, New Hampshire, South Carolina, and New York City. He attended NYU and the University of Wisconsin (from which he received his BA in 1950). He received a Fulbright Grant in 1954 and spent two years at the University of Toulouse in southern France and then lived in Spain until 1957 when he returned to NYC. He made his living as an editor and translator until 1967 when a Guggenheim Fellowship took him back to Europe, where many of the "Journals" were written. Blackburn was a splendid translator of El Mio Cid, Cortazar, Paz, Picasso and the entire canon of Provencal lyric poetry.
"Train to Amersfoort"
Sheep staring
dully across a field
three white pigs in anotherin a third, 7 black & white cows
grazing along, their heads down, tails lifted .Line of trees far off.
Sheep
more sheep
more cows
more pigs, cluster of
distant cows, two horses
heads lifted this time, tails lifted also .
Whole herds of seagulls walk in the fields
sheepdung . cowturds . pigshit .
Smallcanals
run thru the cold November day's
green foggy morning
near an arm of the North Sea near
Naarden Bussumbefore the railroad turns from the sea
toward Hilversum .
Thursday 10
The Recollections. I am studying the photos in this book I have had for ages, "Recollections, Ten Women of Photography." It features the work (and interviews with) of Bernice Abbott, Ruth Bernhard, Carlotta M. Corpron, Louise Dahl-Wolfe, Nell Dorr, Toni Frissell, Laura Gilpin, Lotte Jacobi, Consuelo Kanaga, and Barbara Morgan. Here is an image inspired by a photo of Ruth Berhnard's:
Wednesday 09
Interviewing Techniques. Questions to get answered include:
Who is your competition?
What differentiates your company?
What do you like about it here?
Who are your customers?
Talk to me about pricing?
What kind of sales support is there?
What makes people successful here?
What do you expect of me?
How quickly?
How do I match up?
Concerns?
Next step?
Please go and see a larger version of photo here.
Tuesday 08
Something Did Happen. It happened yesterday. Let me explain.
Monday 07
Change of Season. I carried my camera and tripod down to the corner this morning to take a picture of the street sign, but it was gone; I guess some kids took it. This is what it looked like last year at this time of year:
Sunday 06
Gray Sky. "I'm going to keep doing what I've been doing for a quarter of a century in Ithaca, says Katharyn Howd Machan, who teaches writing and women's studies at Ithaca College and is director of the Feminist Women's Writing Workshops, and became the first Poet Laureate of Tompkins County earlier this month.
"Poetry is often seen as work on the page," she says, "but the Laureate-ship is something that reminds us that poetry is also a performance within the community, in the form of actual readings and the actual sounding of the work.
"There is something more about it that has to do with communication, with communitas. That's a word I like very much. It's different from community. It's that sense of a living, thriving connection, I like to think of it as an upward spiral of creativity," she says.
Today at the Farmer's Market
goat cheese, tiny tart grapes,
a catnip toy, one loaf of George's
whole wheat bread, two baskets
of Red Havens picked this morning
seven miles away. The good life:that's what we say, all those
who work for not enough money
in order to stay in this town,
where bookstores beckon on a dozen streets
and three hills curve up green and steep
above the swan-necked lake.The Iroquois Nation knew this land
as holy spirit place, told stories
that have sunk into the weeds.
Now we who call it our home
summon spirits with different names:
ease, struggle, love. Livinghere along the edges of gorges
we give our reasons, smile,
minds knowing only half of why
our breath needs this gray sky.
Saturday 05
I Did Not See It.
A moose was in
my yard
last week my neighbor
called to tell me
I did not see
it, every morning
I look for it
chipmunks sing
leaves swirl
and
fall
I have given
up, watering
the plant
on the front porch
it
is dying
but I saw
a photograph
Terry took
red phallus
still full
of life
but
here the rose
still blooms
and too
the chrysanthemum
I would hate
I think to be
a cow laying
in the field
in the pouring rain
or would
I
breeze
through the green
birch leaves
turning
yellow
OctoberFriday 04
Family Weekend. We leave in a few hours for Ithaca College. And it seems fitting that since the school was founded as a school of music to share this Glenn Gould quote I found this morning here:
'Somehow, I cannot help thinking of something that happened to me when I was thirteen or fourteen. I haven't forgotten that I prohibited myself anecdotes for tonight. But this one does seem to me to bear on what we've been discussing, and since I have always felt it to have been a determining moment in my own reaction to music, and since anyway I am growing old and nostalgic, you will have to hear me out. I happened to be practicing at the piano one day - I clearly recall, not that it matters, that it was a fugue by Mozart, K. 394, for those of you who play it too - and suddenly a vacuum cleaner started up just beside the instrument. Well, the result was that in the louder passages, this luminously diatonic music in which Mozart deliberately imitates the technique of Sebastian Bach became surrounded with a halo of vibrato, rather the effect that you might get if you sang in the bathtub with both cars full of water and shook your head from side to side all at once. And in the softer passages I couldn't hear any sound that I was making at all. I could feel, of course - I could sense the tactile relation with the keyboard, which is replete with its own kind of acoustical associations, and I could imagine what I was doing, but I couldn't actually hear it. But the strange thing was that all of it suddenly sounded better than it had without the vacuum cleaner, and those parts which I couldn't actually hear sounded best of all. Well, for years thereafter, and still today, if I am in a great hurry to acquire an imprint of some new score on my mind, I simulate the effect of the vacuum cleaner by placing some totally contrary noises as close to the instrument as I can. It doesn't matter what noise, really - TV Westerns, Beatles records; anything loud will suffice - because what I managed to learn through the accidental coming together of Mozart and the vacuum cleaner was that the inner ear of the imagination is very much more powerful a stimulant than is any amount of outward observation.'
I can't wait to see Danielle.
Thursday 03
Gooseneck Gourd.
"What IS that?" asked Betsy when she walked in the door. "And where did you get it?"
"I got it at Atkins Farm," I said. "It is a Gooseneck Gourd."
"It looks like a phallic symbol to me," she said.
"Hmmmm," I said. "I thought it was interesting looking."
What is a gourd, I wondered? Here I found a few answers:
The Gourd Family (Cucurbitaceae) includes hundreds of species of vines bearing coiled, climbing tendrils and some of the most unusual fruits in the world. The total number of species may exceed 700, with at least 100 different genera. Known as "curcurbits" to gourd lovers, the fruits of this exceedingly diverse family come in an astounding array of shapes and sizes, from tiny, marble-sized "jumbie pumpkins" of the Caribbean islands to giant gourds over seven feet (2 m) long. In fact, the undisputed world's largest fruits belong to this remarkable plant family. According to Cucurbits, the official newsletter of the World Pumpkin Confederation, a 1993 record-breaking pumpkin weighed in at 836 pounds (379 kg) and a giant squash tipped the scales at just over 700 pounds (317 kg). One year later at the "gourd olympics" in Port Elgin, Ontario, the reign of the pumpkin was broken by a 900 (408 kg) pound squash.
The gourd family also includes many economically important fruits and vegetables, including pumpkins, squash, melons and cucumbers. In addition, gourds are used by people throughout the world for musical instruments, including shakers, maracas, drums, horns, marimbas and various string gourds resembling a banjo. Other uses include pipes, masks, canteens, water jugs, dippers, birdhouses, bath sponges and decorative gourds with intricate etched designs. So important were gourds to Haitian people in the early 1800s that gourds were made the national currency. The governor of northern Haite in 1807, Henri Cristophe, declared that all gourds would become the property of the state. Piled high on farm carts, 227,000 gourds were collected for the treasury by soldiers without objection from the peasants. To this day, the standard coin of Haiti is called a "gourde." There is apparently some disagreement as to whether this large and somewhat cumbersome Haitian currency came from true vine gourds of the Cucurbitaceae, or from calabash trees that commonly grow in the Caribbean islands. According to Carolyn Mordecai (Gourd Craft, 1978), both types of gourds were brought to the treasury of Haite. Incidentally, the gourd was only used temporarily in Haite until a currency system backed by gold could be established. Otherwise you would need a shopping cart full of gourds to buy groceries at the local market.
Archeological evidence from seeds, rinds, and the well-preserved stalks (peduncles) of gourds indicates that New World Indians were cultivating squashes and gourds in the Americas up to 8,000 years ago. Ancient civilizations in North and South America, such as the Aztec, the Inca, and the Maya were dependent upon a corn/bean/squash complex for their vital nutrition. According to the authority on gourds, Thomas W. Whitaker, early people in the New World first domesticated native squashes and pumpkins for their tasty seeds rather than the fruit flesh. Diet conscious people know that squashes are low in calories, high in fiber, and some are rich in vitamin A. They can be eaten raw in salads, or fried, boiled, steamed, pickled, candied, dried, baked, or made into pies and bread.
Most hard-shelled gourds come from the Old World Lagenaria siceraria. So important were these gourds in the daily lives of native people, that they were introduced into human cultures throughout the world. Probably their most important use was for containers, including pots, pans and bowls, and these gourds are still used to this day in many parts of the world. For water vessels, they are still preferred over earthenware jars because they are lighter and they cool the water by evaporation. In addition to containers and eating utensils, Lagenaria gourds are used for fishing floats, rafts, pipes and snuffboxes. Many of these fascinating uses are discussed by C.B. Heiser in The Gourd Book, 1979. The familiar bottle gourds and large Indian gourds of Arizona and Mexico, including giant bule, bilobial and gooseneck gourds, come from Lagenaria siceraria. In fact, when one uses the term "gourd" they are probably referring to this widespread species. Mature Lagenaria gourds come in an astonishing array of shapes and sizes, from tiny gourds only a few inches (5 cm) long to giants over seven feet (2 m) in length. Some of the distinctive varietal forms include "dumbbell," "club", "dipper", "powder-horn", "kettle," "dolphin", "trough" and "snake" gourds. With rich soil, ample sunlight and water, they grow readily in warm temperate and tropical regions throughout the world.
Musical gourds from Africa and India, such as drums, lutes and sitars have beautiful, polished finishes decorated with beads and carved designs. Some of the earliest guitars and violins in the United States were made from gourds by African slaves. Shaker gourds are probably one of the earliest of all musical instruments. In Africa, hollow gourds are covered with a loose netting strung with hundreds of beads from Job's tears (Coix lacryma-jobi). The tear-shaped "bead" is actually a hollow involucre that contained the female flowers of this pantropical grass. As the beads slap against the gourd, a loud shaker sound is produced--as good as any modern instrument for this purpose. Using the neck of the gourd as a handle, the sound is amplified by the hollow interior. But of all the uses for gourds, some of the most amazing are the "penis sheath gourds" worn by men of New Guinea. Penis gourds are also known from Africa and northern South America. There is considerable speculation among anthropologists about the purpose of such gourds, but most agree that they are more than a protective device and serve an important social function.
Wednesday 02
Art-And-Architecture. Last night, as I watched the New England Revolution and the Chicago Fire soccer game on TV, I read a fascinating article in the September issue of Art in America; "Living Well on Naoshima." An excerpt:
In a spectacular island setting enhanced by two Tadao Ando structures, a Japanese publishing company nurtures an ambitious art-and-architecture program. Imagine a tiny Japanese island where you can encounter works by Walter de Maria, Bruce Nauman, Jean-Michel Basquiat and James Turrell--just for starters--at any time, day or night. The island is Naoshima, and it is sheltered between two of the main islands, Honshu and Shikoku, in Japan's Seto Inland Sea, about 500 miles west of Tokyo. There the Benesse Corporation, working with Pritzker Prize-winning architect Tado ANdo, has created a unique environment to encounter contemporary art, expanding on such Japanese traditions as harmonizing one's dwelling space and garden, and creating a site for contemplation, rather like a vast enlargement of the tokonoma, a domestic niche that might contain a scroll and a single flower or bamboo stalk.
The Benesse Corporation purchased the southern part of Naoshima in 1987 and three years later hired Ando to design a building that would combine a museum with a hotel. Benesse House opened in 1992 with 10 guestrooms atop a series of galleries.
Tuesday 01
Art as Instrument.
"I think of art as having a kind of instrumental use. The word exists, the category exists, so it does have a place. So when I say 'make art,' I don't mean a kind of-a kind of self-enclosed art, but I mean art as this kind of instrument in the world."
~Vito Acconci
