Tag: sculpture

#80 … considering … maybe, what She is doing …

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100_1366What is She doing?

(But first this inquiry) Does He have a right (is that the right word(?)- it is such a big word – to visit? Would it be best to just stay away?  She is, after all, trying to grasp and maybe emote some timeless grace.

Close to the river, the thickets (as good as any other background for mortality) limit her (as they do him); and maybe – maybe is such a big word don’t you think, (maybe?) – maybe She wants some quiet from the chaos of emotives and bomb-throwers, and enfant terribles, and maybe just (and is this the smallest maybe) maybe from He and his craziness?100_2305

 

Now that He has passed the conspicuous discrepancy (He, faulted, walked the straight and narrow – to her) shouldn’t He be acceptable?  Maybe (as one might think) maybe, to be with her at the river…maybe? Maybe He has his own flowing grace or simple crazed value.

Or maybe it doesn’t matter, maybe She just wants to ponder a while, stare (or gaze) through this moment …

… or maybe wait …

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… wait …wait, (that is also … such a big word).

 

 

 

 

#69…it is June…and matrimonial thoughts…

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IMG_0003 The little creek that runs near the tent is clean, convenient, free, and close. Some participants in the reunion of anarchistic emotives have apparently decided to get married or celebrate an anniversary of such.  The cake and the wine appear to sit somewhat unstable just now, don’t you think?

Matrimony (what this table seems to offer) is based on the future, it is a promise.  Sounds nice, but there are always issues from the past enclosed in little emotion bombs (quick to hand) and today’s occurrences of – now,  wherever “now” lands.

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The following is just conjecture.

“Now” might have been the first meeting, the first fifteen seconds; the dancing began, awkward probably, (an interruption on the way to mundane work?).  A bit of prancing about, hiding and showing, bending and bowing, looking and avoiding…afraid to fall?

 

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To that out-of-balance whirl, a dance if you will, unchoreographed bodily truth; something moved on.  Both dancers clutching lit anarchist’s bombs: ancient bits and pieces of pain; brought from, visited upon, invented by, bought and cared for – presumably defensive.

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Look at this, so soon after their meeting.

What do you think or, what do you  know: dropping his bomb would destroy his footing, even if both hands would be free to remove the mask…or dance better, closer.

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But, of course, the partner would have to give up her little bomb…and vanity.

 

 

But thankfully (at least apparently) all went on.

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Now meanwhile, out near the peaceful stream, some wine and a little cake await, why?…do you know?

 

 

 

#67…considering some aliens among us…

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Wow! the Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture has a show up in the gallery.  An ancient figurative sculpture exhibit. Everyone seems to be on good behavior, thoughtful and interested in bronze likenesses of “others”, and being served.

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A bit anachronistic (bronze is ancient) and mildly troublesome: someone is in the room not from our temporal identity group.  Troubling if someone has a sword or posturing an old exotic mystery-angst.  Troubling faces, masks are easily offensive.  Of course the figures may be troubled, headless or limbless, broken in ancient ceremonies or wars.  And troubling (depending upon the winds of doctrines) because they are not dressed at all, nudity.

It is possible to bump into them. Maybe sculpture should have an alarm sound incorporated, you know beep-beep-beep-beep incessantly calling attention to the bleeding obvious or providing auditory accentuation to momentary troubles.

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The alarm may also be applied to various issues between men and women (the putting on or off of the pedestal sort of thing) respect that may not be interpreted as respectful; antiquated chivalry.

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Some sculpture needs the alarm if it looks like – when then and there meets here and now.

 

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#62…considering synapses firing, Divine matter…

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Turbulence, the synapses keep firing, twists and turns (a bit embarrassing).

What inside keeps it all going? memories? rituals? codifying  dreams? efforts? (oh my God the failures), the faint loss? the unattained? the firing nerves…maybe that is all, just firing nerves.

 

 

The haptic synapses, oh how embarrassing, do they mature?  Do synapses wrap up the Divine… this matter?

 

Melted ice and dried thorns, bits of  petals, leaves, still attached; crumbles of things.  Its’ Spring, or, what’s left over from Winter.  Ice and thorns and turbulence, now warmed. Some day this will lift up again, as if the past is now just sleeping.

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Caught in the backwaters, what beauty has sustained is not to be noticed, but that beauty is still there, right?

The river does keep flowing wetness, damp alive black soil wetness that thickets will carry forth…upward… as green, green, green.  Here (where winter browns and grays all life) those little shoots of green green green… matter.  As if matter was The Divine.

As to matter, or “what matters most”; isn’t that Realm… thicker, richer, fogs denser, cold deeper, warmth more enduring, colors more revealing, under a brighter sun?  A vibrancy of stories?

Stories, it is always best (for power) to know the other man’s sins, or better yet failures. Reminiscence of old times (among friends, in front of the young) does often bring forth an event which shadows so much. Some path through the turbulent synapses: a hidden story of pointed embarrassment.

And yet we all begin embarrassed.

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And so we start all over again, the green, green, green (or maybe a different color) to variations along the same path, firing off similar (but oh so personal… stories); lost in the tragedy laughing, or surprised in the comedy crying.

It is common to reduce the Divinity to concepts best reserved for choosing bathroom towels, to wrap about, to cover what matters, to know…embarrassment.

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What We Have Done           painted wood

 

#61…where we consider sentence diagrams and sculpture…

Published on by herbeaton
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diagram of emotive relationships in a recent sentence as mobile

Does mystery have value if no human desires to explore the underlying structure, a revelation of the un-mysterious?  Anarchists are profuse with word bombs convoluting thoughts (or mental pop-ups) aimed at emotively reasoning an end to some offensive authority: including even rational thoughts.  Certainly there is an explorable mystery in organizing explosive emotive thoughts.

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Veer a bit to see a pile of coat-hangers.

Wire “art materials” from the junk deposited (with good intentions) at the door of The Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture.

During the chilled months confinement in the tent, some attendees began “coat-hanger sculpture” projects.  A coagulation of disagreements soon puddled around the project tables.  The makers were adamant that no narrative or story should be attached to their output, no figures recognized.  Their wiry sculptures don’t have to say anything, just…BE.  They are just abstract sculpture.IMG_0003

But some of the scribbler types soon identified works that resemble diagramed sentence structures, therefore implying a story or meaningful words. Attempts were made to place subject, object, and predicates plus adverbial phrases, predicate nominatives and all of the other bits and thoughts (often absurdities) preserved in sentences, as then making meaning of the coathanger art. IMG_0001 2

The wire artists, remembering the cognitive dissonance of junior high school, embroiled with the less-physical learners about keeping “their” propaganda out of “my” art.

The structures became more convoluted and complicated and enlarged in scale (a wonderful word for sculptors, meaning bigger, commanding presence).  These became huge steel structures perfect for holding bifurcated cliches.

The grammatical tyrants analyzed speeches of emotive politicos (word bombs, isolated utterances of dubiously ordered facts, paltry similes), and applied them to the sculptures.

And so sculpted steel now supports dissembled stories; combined mysteries occupying the open areas of the tent of irreconcilables.

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work-in-progress

The pale light illuminates an insufficient answer to a question seldom asked…is there meaning without a story.

#60…Considering urban legends and other doubts…

Published on by herbeaton

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Fooled in the twilight, a clanging…to look or…to replay convoluted stories …creatures, a chimerical plot, a misuse-able craft?  Confusion – a mechanical, persistent heart’s cognition, a dark dull force in pursuit- a raft of fear?

100_1433In the beginning, We had sweet and simple idea remember?  This was a place where the creative and natural could have a simple reunion: inviting neglected anarchists and enfant terribles from now and the ages, to a country picnic.  A rural simplicity joined, sharing art.  We refused proper names (except for Yorick) in the hope that all would feel included, even unmemorialized names.  We have appointed The Deciders, for simplicity, to service opportunities in this old circus tent become museum. Deciders are rendered as the spiritual hobby-horse head of their youth, a personae, avoiding issues of photo rights.

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The Decider (in-chief so called)

But alas, there is something foul afloat  (some unspittable taste of fear) because of one of the Deciders: who chooses to be called ” -In-Chief”.

But also a rising has expanded; a resistance has formed (quite sensibly) among emotives, including anarchists.

 

Bartered superstitions lurk, even on the prairie. A conjured ambassador from the city, night prowler (maybe urban myth), a legend about windows to be pried, and bolted doors blankly covering what should be opened. Among misfit children, the myth is a hero (he sticks his tongue out?).

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KnightRider of the PryBar

 

 

 

 

An invented name, The KnightRider. Schooled in emotive bombs, the children regale in the KnightRider, hoping for some excitement among the resisters.

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Yorick watching (chronically frayed) afraid of lukewarm immortals, counsels the child…

“You are to small for the bomb, and the bomb is to meek for the problem.”

The legend, the conjured Prybar, gains fame in a circuitous polarized distemper between town and the rural colony of anarchists.

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Searching for that which needs, and can be…pried open.