a visual collective outlet of inspiration
breaths shine off my temple
warm yourself, against this burning chest
and like that, at rebirth. by lsd
Dusk Chorus – Anenon – Two for C
weaving in and out
though, really, on ahead
and like that, along the shore. by lsd
de torres | Sade | nothing can come between us
it’s the feeling i’ve got right now.
but so often, how steadfast i should be. and the tired presses against the weak. the faint’ the brittle. come back to me, i would have to say so. even if it meant nothing to you. they’re just words. they burn some clarity away from assumption.
rightfully so, though once they are mine i make them what i want them to be.
—
or do you not think those things? or that none of this ever happened? instead that i was just so wrong, so plainly false. that i lived something flashing along a blunt edge, something in passing I held so close. placed a mark so off i could not walk it back. and that you gave it no second thought. that you did not leave at all. that could be possible too, i guess, and time makes me only wonder. is this still brave? do you need me more at all? maybe you know just how much I can hold and have never doubted. so you do not worry. and when you come back, i would not ever have either. you would find me as i said, calm. patient. proper. because I’d be right then, that i was once again foolish. pretending to something foreign only totally. and that is why. like a return. something i should expect to happen. and maybe you would never ask what i did in the meantime. and we would not wonder. that I could tell you i will not ask you either. and that would make you certain. that you would be sure to never again. because we are bound. by some glad marrow.
in a breathless cadence
—
for you to keep. i have all i can hold already. place them in my arms. like so. and it would feel like that i’m sure if this was ours. by lsd
Mazza | Burial | I just can’t explain what i feel when i’m around you, baby
it’s the truth, song or not.
though chemz is good for it.
and like that, at rebirth. by lsd
Notre dame de paris | Collapsed Crane | 籠屋 | something that lasts
carry into the future something that lasts. like accidents, disasters, and cruelty do.
there too – i think about lean-ness and efficiency. desire to cut down ever-further toward a solid hardened state. confusing venture, no less impossible and vile.
little left but to take away is an irredeemable position. i wish no more. i take all. once it is mine. i surely dream.
they were just constantly flying in circles.
constantly flying in huge circles.
(laurie anderson, the beginning of memory)
what about the ten thousand year clock, or the pyramids of germany, the practice of caving. these mass projects of human dominance, in which we take into the unknown (profound or unfounded) the meager seed of our ingenuity. keep mine my own. let it be said that i was there once. such and such. as it were.
if we fit everyone in – just how much could we think, together? the box in the home becomes the home. and what if we stopped living entirely? i was recently told about tangential metamorphosis – how i could no longer be human only without transformation – a neutered permanent alter-state. conniptive reluctance. trespassing human crowding by removing ourselves from humanity.
and if it all went ahead, and then came to an end? do we have the chance to really see it through? lines drawn like aching joints do. by lsd
Ceaseless | Placeness | Tigress | Abscess
coming up with these, double television has the feeling covered
little left to do but make them.
all new york stories, all made up, all happening. for all time. to return to. stop me. by lsd
Guilt Ridden | As it was | Tangle-drain
drawing around to rediscovery. trying to legitimize a known document, or maybe revel in its acknowledgment that extends past those it concerns. that it would be truer then if others agreed. it could congregate so sweetly i would think, cemented as having happened were a record be made easily available to the document in front of us. at once great, and so always so.
then how disappointing to find no such thing. at a grasp only closed doors, something not so quite itself since it lacks the exact piece that makes it whole. that is, the one sought after. burning hay stack like upheaval. nestling itself in disbelief is also anxiety. that we cannot trust our senses, they are unfulfilled by the realization of our mind – nowhere else but here is this true. fact only in presence. the skeptics worst nightmare. do without them, i whisper. then what. you know. such conversation would surely liberate even the most stubborn of grievers.
and i had a lovely evening. i spent it in friendly company. testing each other out – digging deeper outward, and so, in the most revered sense, inward. it could have lasted a second, or kept going into further eternity, without changing its effect. it was perfect. i’m happy to share with others in this solace – that hidden, protected, room. it becomes so much more that way, i think.
and it’ll keep happening for a long while, at least. by lsd
beethoven’s ode to joy | burne-jones’ golden staircase | it’s june now
the golden staircase, edward burne-jones, 1880
in no way do i feel remotely like this toward any of this.
but after the last post it only felt right.
i don’t care about the 21st, i don’t care about your seasons. this is summer. because anyway it’s all fake, julius and augustus – more like julyuck and augussuck as far as i’m concerned. june is the last real month preceeding five months of lies and smokescreens. september, october, november, december. you do the math.
and i can’t capitalize on this godforsaken website. they won’t let me.
and it’s beginning to become too hot for my morning bike ride through the park to my studio if i wear my backpack (which i must). so now i have to invest in a panier but the rear rack will have to be compatible with a mud guard, and both need to be quick release. that means making a big decision as to getting disc brakes or keeping my pad brakes that barely work (but do work). and i’m thinking of switching both cassettes and both derailleurs as they don’t work (for real), and i want disc brakes but that move away from pad brakes is spiritually akin to getting the new iphone every year. and what if my frame can’t house these things, and then i have to get a dumb new bike that i won’t love nearly as much.
my brakes work. i could use the work-out of not being about to shift gears. who cares if my back sweats i’m tall and strong. i want to use capital letters. they’re fine. capital letters work. i need a mudguard. it’s summer god damn it.
is what i would say..
but after looking at the golden staircase and resting my eyes on the masterpiece for a few moments – i want to wish you a great first day of june. i hope that you enjoy it and look forward to the months ahead. rocking and brimming.
the painting itself is perhaps the most potent representation of hope and tenderness in burne jones’ body of work. his pre-raphaelite ties are wonderfully displayed in the painting – yet he grounds himself firmly in the ideals of the movement, we can identify a master pressing to the edges. moving away from what was too often a retread of old virtues de facto we have here a painting of true invention. a thought that careens toward contemplation. then, true observation. wherein the players and their environment are in harmony. sublime. by lsd
Amyl and the sniffer | guided by angels
thought to end may with the outlier good contemporary punk song ..
ksenia dronova paintings, lull me into june sweetly, and forever ..
and they are taking me – hummed softly only. that is the case here, anyway. by lsd
Guibert | Satrapi | Tardi | Grandes Planches et Petites Planches
last year it was announced that emmanuel guibert had received the prestigious position of head of drawing and etching at the académie des beaux arts. two years prior another cartoonist was also elected to the same post. these two position elections mark the first time in the school’s history that artists from the world of bande-dessinée earned academic leadership positions.
guibert himself behaves rather atypically for a cartoonist, such that his work extends often off of the drafting table, and at times is not present in the bound product. his work is first and foremost reportage. reintroduction and rearragment of historical documents, biographical passages, and journalistic endeavors, to the greater public.
tooling with mark-marking then becomes a gesture in time-appreciation and time-depreciation, as the main bodies of the work (foreground, middle-ground, background, character) each behave with different autonomies. a beachy bank is not substitutable to the soldier warring along it. In the same way that the soldier to his enemy. and yet they are kindred in kind, just like the bank and the soldier are kindred in matter. the problem of representation and depiction in historical/biographical bd is taken head on by guibert in a rhythmic, systematic (bordering just so in an aesthetic) manner.
the relationships between the bodies goes beyond form alone. it all coexists, and yet is appreciable only when it is acknowledged as belonging to different planes.
marjane satrapi opens up the conversation in a wider manner with her seminal work persepolis.
autobiographical, belonging to her child-self, returning to far-away and long-away. the line in satrapi’s work is her hand, it is not representative in that sense – it depicts events. in that way then she is able to go wherever she wishes. she has flattened the dimension of time and space such that they are her’s to recover and pry into freely.
not much more needs to be said here about her work itself. it would be a disservice to the already extensive conversation that has surrounded the comic.
finally we get to tardi. who reaches past guibert’s body of work and satrapi’s persepolis. his work, if we are to continue holding these three together in our arms, neighbors satrapi’s later broderies. As both communicate with the deep past (the past not lived by the author) in an emotional capacity. both authors are trying to assess the past. such that the factual nature of either of their works is structure not content. it braces the emotive potential, the oniric potential of polemical and anecdotal issues, of their works.
tardi, son and grandson of soldiers, bears little resemblance to the patriot of today. for he knows it is person that makes country. it is then country that severs, massacres person. country is not an identity, it is a set of behaviors imposed on person. war happens upon person, not country.
tardi’s line is exquisite in its trustworthiness, it is free to wander with surgical accuracy the depth of human expression. he builds (seemingly from day one) a robust vocabulary of line that continues to serve him throughout his career – changing only to improve and clarify, not to reinvent. in that steadfast manner, tardi opens himself up in a way that an american might understand lynchian routine. do the same thing, eat the same food, appreciate the same landscapes, everyday – dream then, whole and free. ultimately tardi is the progenitor of sturdy lines out which limits seldom cross the reader’s mind.
each of these artists, i want to make clear here, operate with comparable sturdiness. the matter does not change between either. they are cut from the same cloth and it is a wonder that their sensibilities are so closely tender, for as reader it is the great gift of opening any of their books.
they are cut from the same cloth and it is a wonder that their sensibilities are so closely tender, for as reader it is the great gift of opening any of their books. by lsd
i had to do it to them
we talk about constraints as shape-potential here. we think about what we make, especially when it’s given to us – in a sense. i never wonder about what i don’t do, only what’s yet to be done. so, yesterday i received a package from my printer, and after many mishandled attempts they’ve finally gotten it right. the result speaks for itself. i get to look at my shelf and see the work accomplished so far, with immense pride. it was at one point reviewed by the boss and some crucial feedback led me to tighten my systems down. it pays off i heard. it payed off. breaking into runways. carefully carving the embankment and seeing the stream take shape. managing the estuaries. such and such.
i’m starting a whole new dostoïevski and raking in my good boy points by dutifully tending to my work. so leave me alone. i can’t stand this time you draw for me, let me asphyxiate in my own routine. i’m in full discovery-mode, collection-mode. i got stuff to put away neatly, you’ll see it soon. such and such.
lots of rambling. lots missing here that i’m not saying. but it’s a greater urge than discipline so i ought to leave it here. by lsd
Belkacem | Fontaine | C’est normal
today, i really just need this song. it’s a gloomy passage that’s livened by the pleasure of aresky belkacem and brigitte fontaine’s incredible collaboration. their song c’est normal stands in a class of its own, and, since my earliest memories, has been at my side. je ne connais pas cet homme is an achievement in songwriting, pacing, and a testament to all avant-garde album structure.
it is rue barbette, saturday maybe, and i can see maman spraying a cleaning solution to wipe our parquet down. the name has long since escaped me and i hold the smell tightly against my chest – hoping that it remains mine to keep always. when she is done she’ll also use it to wipe our black lacquered china table with the ivory relief safely protected under a thick glass pane. the apartment is entranced by fontaine and belkacem, and for a few brief moments we both sing along to the burning building leading them to their impending/inevitable/obvious peril. it is death that’s found at the bottom of the rubble. the courtyard in my building is cobblestone. mom has painted her new wall pink. i use papier calque to trace my favorite cassette covers rented from the video store. we do this for years i think, then we move. far away. and now we are here. i am happy that is the case. by lsd
