Trees along the Charles River, Boston Ah, the color red. For several weeks that hue has been a touchstone for the unspoken for me, an indicator of another realm. It started with the trees. What a fall this has been in New England, with the color coming on with an orchestrated polyphony. The red leafed […]
Month: November 2009
Wealth in Other Forms
Best description of reading poetry I’ve found was in a review of Amy Gerstler’s latest volume, Dearest Creature, from the Sunday Times Book Review. Written by a fellow poet David Kirby, it is clear he knows of what he speaks: “Look, a poem either sends you a bill or writes you a check. You can […]
The Starry Messenger
I’m a big Kenneth Lonergan fan. In fact I’ve been a fan of his since he was about 12 years old, long before he wrote plays like This is Our Youth and The Waverly Gallery, a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize in 1999. Or his Oscar-nominated film You Can Count on Me, which he both […]
Art and Meaning
John Perreault’s popular blog, Artopia, has a recent posting that brings together a disparate variety of themes. Braided into Perreault’s personal ruminations is reference to “Icons of the Desert: Early Aboriginal Paintings from Papunya”, the aboriginal art show at Grey Gallery (NYU), the “Mandala” show at the Rubin Museum, as well as a discussion of […]
Flavors of the Ineffable
Winner of the “best conversation between an artist and his/her son or daughter”: My friend George is an artist whose work ranges from representational painting to highly conceptual installation work. He’s extremely facile, but sometimes that range of output can leave his various audiences a bit confused. After his new body of work was greeted […]
Moses in Motion
Ed Moses, Untitled, 1987 (Photo: Sylvia White Gallery) Moses is a member of that increasingly interesting group of California artists that constellated around the Ferus Gallery scene (along with Billy Al Bengston, Robert Irwin, John Altoon, Larry Bell, Ed Ruscha et al) back in the 60s. He has a new show at the Sylvia White […]
Shadow Dancing
I’m still combing the beach of Bly’s small book, A Little Book on the Human Shadow. In some ways this is a sequel to my earlier posting, The Thatness. Bly is so open about his woundedness, in person and in his poetry. I don’t think I know of another poet who is so unabashedly brought […]