The wires are a connective element; a conduit of civilizing electricity, yet there is an insistence on isolation inherent in the design of some of the houses here. Beyond an eye toward privacy, they sometimes feel fortress-like, extending a feeling of invitation only to those already familiar; only to those whose homes they are.… Continue reading An architecture of isolation
There is a hum in the wires. It's faint but if you close your eyes it’ll find you. It was there before the wires were strung, but in them it found a conduit. It's elemental, but not the way you may think. It’s not the wind, either. Those forces are altogether different to what sings… Continue reading The hum in the wires
Here are a couple watercolor sketches that I began on the weekend while in Fire Island, and finished last night. And an excerpt from a text I sent to a friend, regarding a particular mission while I was out on the island: Twice this day I've filled my pockets with soft sea-rounded stones for our… Continue reading Unicorns in the pool, and a search for sea-softened stones
Along windswept edges of town amid stern midcentury angles, a bright unsunny light filters and glances; limns the geometric emptinesses between things on a weekend in shoulder season on a slip of land off the coast of Long Island. The color of the wood sea-silvered— salt boxes beheaded, re-envisioned by exacting minds, rise out of… Continue reading An austerity of angles sprouting from wild grasses
After the crash, we float like ghosts, moving about the old main street unnoticed and silently marveling at the high pitched roofs and tall windows of these old houses, taking in the glow of warm light of the interiors. The long incandescent puddles projecting out through the panes onto the thick blanket of silencing snow… Continue reading After the crash we float like ghosts
There is a room full of young women lounging in or at the edges of inviting pools of water. The room has an otherworldly atmosphere, with dim, colored lighting and biomorphic curves in the walls and ceilings. It feels, looks like a grotto; like some ethereal rendering of a subterranean brothel. On low ledges all… Continue reading Elegant instruments, arrayed in bowls
One of the reasons I enjoy poetry is because it comprises all of my favorite ways of making. It’s creating images with words, yes; a kind of storytelling. But it’s about so much more than just the correct or precise words —more than denotation or connotation— it’s also about design. It’s about how the words interact… Continue reading The shapes created by the spaces between things
When I was young, probably in college, I’d occasionally hear a person talking about this or that luminary, describing them as a “Rhodes Scholar.” My lack of awareness at the time meant that I’d only ever heard the phrase, not seen it spelled out. I had no idea. In my adventurous young mind, I heard… Continue reading Philosophical pirates, intellectual outlaws
He was long ago sealed into to the wall— made part of the wall— with a spell. All the years since, visitors and passersby have presumed he's just another sculptural embellishment of the palazzo. His consciousness remains, though— eyes, frozen, he still sees; his ears still hear. Being a mute and immovable witness is a… Continue reading Deeds and misdeeds
e daggar art: THE MUSEUM 