Lost Highway

Three things.

In all, there were three things:
the certainty one is always beginning
the certainty one must go further
and the certainty that one will be interrupted before finishing.
From the interruptions, to make a new path,
from falling, a dance step,
from fear, a ladder
from dream, a bridge, from search…the encounter.

Petit Sekou

That old feeling ..

Blue Moon -Billy Holiday.

“I like vessels … you’ve got an inside and an outside. I like things hidden.” — June Schwarcz

June Schwarcz is 97 years old and still enameling today..

I feel quite drawn to work like this, where the more you seek the more details you find..

I once had a conversation with one of my teachers where he asked me why I kept making boxes.. for some reason I am drawn to boxes and hollow structures as well, we decided there was some sort of “protecting” aspect about it.. and when I see her vessels I get just that, I think her subtlety shows through, these are not to be used in a common form, they were made to hold something deeper… they are to be admired and loved as the  beautiful object they are..

This video features her talking about her work, it is so inspiring to see someone so fulfilled and with a life time of memories through making..

 

Oh..well, did I tell you I really like her work? 🙂

Black Cloud-Carlos Amorales

“Sometimes, seeing one of these moths that have met their end in my house, I wonder what kind of fear and pain they feel while they are lost. As Alphonso had told him, said Austerlitz, there is really no reason to suppose that lesser beings are devoid of sentient life. We are not alone in dreaming at night for, quite apart from dogs and other domestic creatures whose emotions have been bound up with ours for many thousands of years, the smaller mammals such as mice and moles also live in a world that exists only in their minds whilst they are asleep, as we can detect from their eye movements, and who knows, said Austerlitz, perhaps moths dream as well, perhaps a lettuce in the garden dreams as it looks up at the moon by night.”

W.G. Sebald

This past weekend I saw this beautiful piece in the Contemporary cultural center of Barcelona.. thousands of black butterflies surrounded the place.

And in this video you can see the motivations behind the piece and a few glimpses of the installation in another place.

Jean Dubuffet

                     

                    

                                                                       Apartment houses ,Paris, 1946

I have always directed my attempts at the figurative representation of objects by way of summary and not very descriptive brushstrokes, diverging greatly from the real objective measurements of things, and this has led many people to talk about childish drawing…this position of seeing them (the objects, fh) without looking at them too much, without focussing more attention on them than any ordinary man would in normal everyday life..

   

         

Character, 1944

People have seen that I intend to sweep away everything we have been taught to consider – without question – as grace and beauty; but have overlooked my work to substitute a vaster beauty, touching all objects and beings, not excluding the most despised – and because of that, all the more exhilarating….

I would like people to look at my work as an enterprise for the rehabilitation of scorned values, and, in any case, make no mistake, a work of ardent celebration….

I am convinced that any table can be for each of us a landscape as inexhaustible as the whole Andes range… I am struck by the high value, for a man, of a simple permanent fact, like the miserable vista on which the window of his room opens daily, that comes, with the passing of time, to have an important role in his life. I often think that the highest destination at which a work of art can aim is to take on that function in someone’s life.

                                   

 A little secret that I have sought for a long time by way of a fortuitous encounter quite unrelated to the matter: for example six months I try to draw a camel in a way that satisfies me, and I make a thousand attempts without ever managing to do it. Then one day it is a drawing of a plump on the label of a pot of jam or the shadow thrown by an ink pot, or something or other equally unrelated to the matter that provides me with the solution. This kind of thing has happened so often that I have acquired the habit of always being on the outlook, and when I want to draw a camel I no longer limit myself, as I once did, to looking (only, fh) at camels…

                                                          

                                                                                             Il flute sur la boss (1947)

On Art Brut: Those works created from solitude and from pure and authentic creative impulses – where the worries of competition, acclaim and social promotion do not interfere – are, because of these very facts, more precious than the productions of professionals. After a certain familiarity with these flourishings of an exalted feverishness, lived so fully and so intensely by their authors, we cannot avoid the feeling that in relation to these works, cultural art in its entirety appears to be the game of a futile society, a fallacious parade.

                             

                                                                                                           more here

I have been through hell and back and let me tell you, it was wonderful- Louise Bourgeois

A few days ago I had the opportunity to see the Louise Bourgeois exhibition “Structures of existence-The cells”.

I have admired her for as long as I can remember, seen documentaries, read and tried to understand all the little details of art as psychoanalysis,  the volume of her work it is impressive and seeing it in person has been truly a wonderful experience I am quite grateful for.

This is the only photo I took, honestly I do respect the rules of not photographing but I was also too busy taking it all in.

Still here are a few photos I found online of what I saw inside:

The cells represent different types of pain.

     

What touched me the most is that as you walk through the cells, it’s like walking into someone’s dreams, it’s so intimate,you can feel the fear, the anxiety the slow growth and coming to terms with things and to finally reach  acceptance and forgiveness.

It was truly beautiful.

Aplastamiento de las gotas- Julio Cortázar.

I don’t know, look, it’s terrible how it’s raining. It’s raining all the time, dense and gray outside, here drops, dull and hard, come against the balcony with a splat!, squashing themselves like slaps piling one onto another, how tedious. Now a droplet appears just at the top of the window frame; stays there quivering against the sky, shattered into a thousand subdued glints, about to fall down but won’t fall, still won’t fall. It holds on tight, all nails, doesn’t want to fall and it’s clear it grips with its teeth while its belly grows bigger and bigger; it’s now a majestic drop hanging there, and then plonk, there it goes, splat, undone, nothing, only a clammy something on the marble.
But there are those that kill themselves and surrender right away, sprouting in the frame whence they jump off outright; I can even make out the dive’s vibration, their little legs falling off and the inebriating scream in the fleetingness of the fall and their annihilation. Sad, gloomy, despondent drops, plump and gullible drops. Good-bye drops. Good-bye.I don’t know, look, it’s terrible how it’s raining. It’s raining all the time, dense and gray outside, here drops, dull and hard, come against the balcony with a splat!, squashing themselves like slaps piling one onto another, how tedious. Now a droplet appears just at the top of the window frame; stays there quivering against the sky, shattered into a thousand subdued glints, about to fall down but won’t fall, still won’t fall. It holds on tight, all nails, doesn’t want to fall and it’s clear it grips with its teeth while its belly grows bigger and bigger; it’s now a majestic drop hanging there, and then plonk, there it goes, splat, undone, nothing, only a clammy something on the marble.
But there are those that kill themselves and surrender right away, sprouting in the frame whence they jump off outright; I can even make out the dive’s vibration, their little legs falling off and the inebriating scream in the fleetingness of the fall and their annihilation. Sad, gloomy, despondent drops, plump and gullible drops. Good-bye drops. Good-bye.