the immortalization commission

on a day like this

On a day like this you can't remember the words in your dream, just the faint rhythm of a line that escapes you. The first day of spring, the light warm and soft, crouching like a child hiding in the fields, breaking free on the horizon.

Sin and prayer:

Not for you. Never really appealed to you. If there is any guilt then it is when you're happy. Puritan upbringing, I'm afraid. Or was it just there from the beginning, in the bones? Prayer? For 'salvation'? Wasn't Lawrence right: better to live and love? In any case, the only prayer is surely for other people. Even then, you think working to help other people is better. What is the use of talking about a 'good state of mind' or spirituality?

~~~

On a day like this you think of the light and how it reminds you of other times. Late summer days in the seventies, perhaps. In a southern mood, with your sun-and-wheat-consciousness, you think how the same light falls on people in distant places today, bringing them happiness. And perhaps also a long time ago, in a tavern, surrounded by trees and their leafy shade, when a man looked up and wondered to himself: how many days have passed?

Remember me when I'm gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no longer hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turning to go, yet turning stay...

Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.

cube, square

(Above: one of the rejected submissions for Lenin's mausoleum in Red Square).

This was supposed to rival Mecca and Jerusalem. A space that represented the fourth dimension, that was 'beyond' time. The attempt to build heaven on earth resulted in the all-too predictable creation of gulags and varieties of hell. The quest to build the 'New Man' invariably results in cleansing society of the impure and the unbelievers.

Anarchic peoples, like desert nomads, hate and destroy images, and a similar image-breaking streak runs through Russian history…

Malevich was touched by mystical yearnings. In his hands the non-objective canvas became an icon of anarchy and inner freedom: this is what made it dangerous to Marxist materialism. Of his painting Black Square he said he had felt 'black nights within' and a timidity bordering on fear', but as he decided to break with reality and abandon the image: 'a blissful sensation of being drawn into a "desert" where nothing is real but feeling, and feeling became the substance of my life.'

Now this is not the language of a good Marxist, but of Meister Eckhart – or, for that matter, of Mohammed. Malevich's Black Square, his 'absolute symbol of modernity', is the equivalent in painting of the black-draped Ka'aba at Mecca, the shrine in the valley of sterile soil where all men are equal before God. And if this seems far-fetched, I quote the judgement of Andrei Burov, an architect who left the Constructivist Movement: 'There was a strong Muslim influence and orthodox Mohammedanism at that; by way of decoration only clocks and letters were allowed.'

excerpt from "George Costakis: The Story of an Art Collector in the Soviet Union," in What Am I Doing Here? by Bruce Chatwin

A week-long fantasy

For this soul needs to be honoured with a new dress woven
From green and blue things and arguments that cannot be proven.

Why do you look for co-incidences? In John Gray's fascinating book (of which more later) there's this line-by H.G. Wells, I think- which goes something like: we cannot know future patterns.

And yet we surround ourselves with frames, have an eye for geometry that matches the keen vision of the nomad, are tied down by an obsession for precision: how was it, exactly? And repetition, as the memory of you fades: how was it again?

In a discussion with T about one of your favourite paintings-and a brief mention of his other one: Icarus. Desire goes unnoticed. How the world carries on; how the seas rage on without us knowing or caring.

Within these phantasmal boundaries each lord's hall is a place of refuge. Within: warmth and light; human solidarity and culture;rank and ceremony. A solidification of time.

Outside: unredeemed time.

~~~

At the medieval-like market you bought beetroot, delicious with its oak, earthy, woody covering. You cut and washed the lot, each piece gleaming like a new-born baby or a piece of glistening coal brought out from the depths. Also bought some 'black carrots'. Must take a photo of them and the market next time, next week...the market, full of tractors, donkeys, straw, mud, and shit, as if time had passed it by. Also bought a large earthenware jar in which to keep the drink. Very Roman. A few indecipherable hieroglyphs, like black crows circling around a cool well.

The black carrots, peeled and diced (by the end I began to feel a bit sorry for them..is there something as a vegetable soul?) But for the most part it was great fun preparing this fermented drink (mustard seeds, red chillies, and black salt as well). Handling them left ink-marks on my fingers . Not indelible-very little is-but still under my fingernails as I write this. Hands that would know...

Takes a week to mature. Until then, just dream on. The outer skin of the carrots piled up, like the bark of a black tree, or charcoal; the fleshy carrots put to one side, slowly secreted a light blue liquid that gradually became gray-blue, then purple. And I couldn't but help think of Bonington, and his wonderful water colours at the Wallace Collection. Twenty six! Jesus!
~~~

And then the art of (un)dressing.

Let's not go there.

But how things come together, and then fall away in their own separate way. Of this I cannot write.

originality

interview with G. Dyer to follow...

"And be not conformed to the world"

What is originality, then? At the very least an attitude, perhaps; at the best, a way of living. Of course, if you're hooked on to the 'first' then a cover or a re-make, because it always invites comparisons, will seem tainted, lacking in something: precisely: it wasn't the first, the thing that pulled you in the beginning-and there's nothing like that first movement away from yourself.

But if the artist creates, or if you make something your own, see it with your own eyes, see or make something that is fresh, vital, unique, then it's possible to imagine more than one form of beauty.

In religion as well: should we say the Truth is one.
Yes! But 'one' is not a number!

Every person is born as a unique individual, adds a different perspective to the world, is a new bridge. A child looks on the world in simple amazement. The original wonder. Parents and an education will soon see to that though, beat or coax it out of you. And if you survive that, society or religion or work will get you.

Originality. Not just 'la' but fidelity. Fidelity to what or who, though? A text, a score, is only a series of black marks on white paper. Of course, that suits you: a fragment of a quote here, a single song there; not the sustained engagement that produces any real depth. But still, these are the times you live in. The classical world is over, and so is Tradition. If that is the choice-and you think it is-then better to find one's own way of being superficial...

Learning to let go; knowing what to keep. If through all the changes, falls, deviations, swerves, doubts, you can still hear the same bright voice, always the same, never the same.

inventory

things to do. and find. it accumulates, despite your puritan tendencies. you can't stop it. an old glass jar on the bookshelf, the label worn out: a number and some indecipherable words.probably from a hospital. books and cd's strewn over the desk (Savall's Celtic tunes, still unlistened to, Geoff Dyer and Celan, a book on fairness, Coltrane and Piazzolla, Gunter Eich, The Immortalization Commission). a camera (unused), kept in a 'Servis' shoe box. the desk drawers full of old photographs, from different times and places, mostly half-forgotten.

who gave what, when. would be another.


on the (fake) wooden floor: a camera stand back from the seventies, its legs askew like a giraffe, a rusting eiffel tower, a black and gold statue of some minor egyptian god, the black mainly just layers of dirt, you suppose, but the silence is genuine. a tattered suitcase, grinning through the silver zip. been there, done that, my friend.

make things up as you go along, to pass the time, to avoid the glaring gaps, what's missing. make a note of things. which is itself not a thing. even the thing is not it.

suede brown trousers thrown on the chair (its springs have nearly given), along with torn socks, corduroy coat (brown with the cliched elbow patches), crumpled shirts (yes, a choice selection!), a tie from the wreckage of the past. above the chair, on the wall, a cloth wall hanging, made up, like everything else, of a patchwork of slightly faded or discarded pieces. never really liked it, and doesn't really belong. next to the window, a wind chime. opposite the chair/cupboard its twin, clean and cushioned. a place to observe the chaos from all angles (but don't look inwards). above your head, three old E.S.Curtis photos, yellow and brown (Apache, and all that). Also, it now transpires, made up, fake, the unreal gestures made to please, to remember.

there will be a record of all we've said and done, somewhere. the small kindnesses, but the cruelty too. God's cross falling on who knows what. what did you know?

A Certain Light

In a certain light we are not who we are. All that was false falls away. In that second space we see behind appearance, the time that generates time, the gaze before the gaze. Beyond the stones there is another reality, other orders of being. Sometimes, as in a dream, we are made aware of them co-existing with our own familiar way of seeing the world and we catch a glimpse of these other realms; we discern our name, reclaim the acts that are ours, and think to ourselves: this is home, our true reality, all else is shadow.

-

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Anything can happen.

Those overlooked regarded.

Ground gives.

The Heaven's weight

Lifts up off Atlas.

Capstones shift, nothing resettles right.

---Seamus Heaney

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Maybe this other reality is locked into stone, inheres deep in the rock, like a black bird, captive but taking flight; maybe it is our gaze that has turned the world to stone, brought about its silence, when everything is flowing? The bird dreams of a star, catches its own reflection and now waits, age upon age, to be released...

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'Looking close in the evil mirror Crow saw

Mistings of civilisation...

Stone likewise. A pebble is imprisoned

Like nothing in the Universe.

Created for black sleep. Or growing

Conscious of the sun's red spot occasionally,

Then dreaming it is the foetus of God.'

---Ted Hughes.

Where are you now? Where are any of us these days? These days, when a whole afternoon can slip by, as light and insignificant as a cloud; the hours fall on your lap...books, and words, and notes are rearranged, clothes folded and put away-as if any of that makes a difference. An empty, clear glass on your table, perfectly empty, and a silver spoon next to it, pointing to it in adoration, gleaming with an unknown purity, truth. Things are in order here, but what of it. Where am I?

~~~

Darling R wants to see the world from every possible angle and sleeps, in her own distinctive way, at a tangent to others. "One must create one's own space in the world," she says, pretending to frown. "Or at least find it"

I think you're going to be a great actress, I comment, trying to tease the little one.

"What? Better than you?!"

R, you cheeky monkey, don't get me started...

~~

The hours fall, and fall. Her eyes fill up with mischief. She folds her arms on the dark failings, and laughs, then opens and closes her hand, as if it was a flash. She can say the word "hippo". Perhaps that's all there is to it, even though 'the word is too frivolous in the English language' (Gunter Eich)

at moments like this

At moments like this you remember what is possible, the meaning of the word hope. Through "the arc of history" you will see that it was America that supported Pharaoh (just as they supported General Z and General Musharraf).

But nah, though it's enjoyable watching Israel and the Saudi degenerates squirm. it's time to move on, and move on up. As Otis would say, take your shoes off, get comfortable, y'know..

the red and the black

the search for Truth is not easy, especially if one is not searching, or know what the Truth is.

early morning light seeps in. grey and cold objects still finding their Form, their outlines first. A crow falls, falls, swoops down from a height like a thick blanket. why outside my home, and no other? craas blindly against the emptiness of the universe, as if hearing his own voice, awakened to his own ugliness, he could discover his unique soul.

but crow spoke. and you thought of him, was in your mind somewhere; then, by hand and red ink made his way to a blank page of your notebook. no, not blank. scrawled in black are the words: just as it is, unmisted by love. from there-after a suitable elapse of time for breakfast-he, somehow, miraculously, jumps to your computer screen and this blog...reassembled, digitally. and now, i suppose, you read of him too and, despite yourself, think of him (or me), imagine how that ugly craa sounded.

for a second he's lodged in your mind. an image forms, grey at first but bryter, clearer later. this dead crow who's made such a fantastical journey already. not all crows, crows did not fall like the snow, generally, just this particular early-morning one, the one that fell from the sky.

and then you clear your throat, your tongue loosens, moistens, and your lips move unconsciously. you whisper his name to yourself, ever-so-gently, like breath on a dark mirror.

if only the reverse were true! then I, standing upright, would write of you truly, speak to crow, find my Form, so that in a flash you would fall by my side and i would hear the beautiful craaing of your voice unfurling against the emptiness of the universe.