Listen to the New York Times tribute to songwriters we lost this year: "The Music They Made"
Lucky us we get the memories.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
THE MUSIC THEY MADE
Listen to the New York Times tribute to songwriters we lost this year: "The Music They Made"
Lucky us we get the memories.
Monday, December 28, 2009
MARBLES FOR THE HOLIDAYS
Chocolate-Dipped Hazelnut Marblesfrom the delightful Clotilde Desoulier of Chocolate and Zucchini
Serve with holidays; coffee, tea or the perfect glass of Port.
1 cup shelled hazelnuts, toasted
3/4 cup confectioner’s sugar
a pinch fine sea salt
2 tsp agave syrup (or honey or maple syrup)
3 oz high-quality bittersweet chocolate
Makes about 25 hazlenut marbles
Combine the nuts, sugar, and salt in the bowl of a food processor, and pulse until finely ground. Transfer to a medium mixing bowl, and form a well in the center. In a small bowl, combine the honey with 1 tablespoon hot water, and stir to dissolve. Pour into the center of the hazelnut mixture, and stir with a fork to blend.
Knead the hazelnut paste for a minute or two, until it comes together and you are able to shape it into a ball. (It will be a little sticky, but it will dry as it chills.) Wrap in plastic and refrigerate for at least an hour, and up to a day.
Remove the hazelnut paste from the fridge. Scoop out rounded teaspoons, and shape them into small balls, about 2 cm (3/4 inch) in diameter, with the tips of your fingers. Line them up on a plate, and plant a toothpick vertically in the center of each. Cover loosely with plastic wrap, and place the plate in the fridge.
Line a baking sheet with parchment paper or a silicone baking mat. Melt the chocolate in a double boiler (i.e. a heatproof bowl set over a pan of simmering water), stirring from time to time.
Dip each of the marbles in turn in the chocolate, holding it by the toothpick and swirling it around gently to coat. Leave the very top uncoated, so the hazelnut paste shows. Lift from the chocolate, let the excess chocolate drip down for a few seconds, then set on the parchment paper, toothpick pointing skyward. Let rest somewhere cool (but not the refrigerator) for 2 hours, until the chocolate coating is dry. The marbles will keep for up to 4 days at room temperature in an airtight container.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
THE WEEK WHEN COLORS RESONATE
If there were a week to take in the colors it would be these 7 days between Christmas and New Years. Rest of the year, colors are faded then struggle forth, but on these down days, color can be color. For what is there but to be optimistic? What is there but to dream of warmer times? No reason to get up, not because of what keeps us down, but because these are the days we're given without cost or consequence. Happy Reprieve, all.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
GIRLS LAUGHING
I've searched and searched for an image of girls laughing. Here....
Photograph by Leslie Alsheimer, National Geographic
Photograph by Leslie Alsheimer, National Geographic
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Sunday, December 20, 2009
JIGSAW PUZZLE
First, the four corners,
Then the flat edges.
Assemble the lost borders,
Walk the dizzy ledges,
Hoard one color—try
To make it all connected—
The water and the deep sky
And the sky reflected.
Absences align
And lock shapes into place,
And random forms combine
To make a tree, a face.
Slowly you restore
The fractured world and start
To recreate an afternoon before
It fell apart:
Here is summer, here is blue,
Here two lovers kissing,
And here the nothingness shows through
Where one piece is missing.
- A. E. Stallings
River Styx
Number 80, 2009
Then the flat edges.
Assemble the lost borders,
Walk the dizzy ledges,
Hoard one color—try
To make it all connected—
The water and the deep sky
And the sky reflected.
Absences align
And lock shapes into place,
And random forms combine
To make a tree, a face.
Slowly you restore
The fractured world and start
To recreate an afternoon before
It fell apart:
Here is summer, here is blue,
Here two lovers kissing,
And here the nothingness shows through
Where one piece is missing.
- A. E. Stallings
River Styx
Number 80, 2009
Friday, December 18, 2009
NEAR AFGHANISTAN
THERE ARE PEOPLE WHO SMILE NEAR AFGHANISTAN. THE WEATHER IS BEAUTIFUL THERE. THE MOUNTAINS ARE THEIR FRIENDS.
I ONCE IDEALIZED AFGHANISTAN. WROTE A REPORT ABOUT IT IN AN EARLY GRADE. I RECALL MY EARLY FASCINATION NOW, AS AFGHANS ARE CAUGHT IN THE CROSSFIRE OF TRIBAL FURY.
MY REPORT WAS OF IDYLLICS AND POETRY, THESE IMAGES.
I ONCE IDEALIZED AFGHANISTAN. WROTE A REPORT ABOUT IT IN AN EARLY GRADE. I RECALL MY EARLY FASCINATION NOW, AS AFGHANS ARE CAUGHT IN THE CROSSFIRE OF TRIBAL FURY.
MY REPORT WAS OF IDYLLICS AND POETRY, THESE IMAGES.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
SPARKLING
SPARKLING CRANBERRIESfrom 101 Cookbooks
2 cups cranberries, picked over
2 cups water
2 cups sugar
More sugar for coating: I do a mix of medium-grained organic sugar for the first coating, and then a second toss with regular granulated white sugar. You don't want a huge grain for that first toss, just something larger than standard sugar, smaller than most turbinado sugars. You can sort of see the different grain sizes in the third photo in the main write-up
Place the cranberries in a medium glass bowl and set aside.
Make a simple syrup by bringing the water and sugar just to a simmer in a medium saucepan. Let the syrup cool for a couple minutes and then pour it over the cranberries. If the syrup is too hot the cranberries will burst, so be careful. Cover and refrigerate overnight.
The next day, drain the cranberries and toss them with larger grained sugar until they are well coated. I only use a scoop of sugar at a time, and small batches of cranberries, so the sugar doesn't get too damp. Place the coated cranberries on a baking sheet to dry for a few hours.
Do a second toss with the regular granulated sugar, this typically takes care of any sticky spots on the cranberries. Let dry another hour.
Makes 2 cups of sparkling cranberries to serve with cheese and bread on a celebratory evening.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
HOOT A FEW HOOTS
The person who doesn't relax and hoot a few hoots voluntarily, now and then, is in great danger of hooting hoots and standing on their head for the edification of the pathologist and trained nurse, a little later on. - Elbert Hubbard
Monday, December 7, 2009
SPEAKEASY
Eliza in conversation. Light and shadow and a very good story.My niece at a wedding. Photo by Emily Lombardi.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
AUTOMAT
Photo from National Geographics, J. Baylor Roberts, 1942. Reportedly, 72,000 pieces of pie were sold every day from this Automat in New York City. The tribute in print, "The Automat" by Lorraine Diehl and Marianne Hardart
Friday, December 4, 2009
FIG
Fresh Fig and Rose Smoothie
from Chocolate and Zucchini
- 6 ripe black figs (about 250 grams or 9 ounces) (see note 1)
- 2 or 3 large oranges, to yield about 250 ml or 1 cup juice
- 2 teaspoons rose water, plus more to taste (see note 2 & 3)
Remove the very tip of the fig stems and quarter the figs. Juice the oranges. Combine the quartered figs, orange juice, and rose water in a blender, and whizz until smooth. Taste, and add a little more rose water if desired.
Note 1: If the figs you have are not very sweet, throw in a dried fig (preferably a baglama fig from Turkey), rehydrated in a bowl of very hot water. It’s okay to use frozen (but thawed) figs; in France, they’re available from Picard stores, for instance.
Note 2: Depending on the potency of your rosewater, you may want to start with a gingerly amount (like 1/2 teaspoon) and work your way up from there.
Note 3 and from Charlotte: Rose Flower Water can be found in Danbury at Vivianne, at Balducci's, and in Europe, in the Markets. Doubly gorgeous used as a face toner if your cooking doesn't regularly call for the scent of fresh roses.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
AVOCADO
Avocados, New York, Edward Steichen, 1930Avocado, Asparagus and Mint Salad
2 lb Asparagus
2 medium avocados
Juice and zest of 1 lemon
2 Tbsp olive oil
2 Tbsp fresh parsley
1 Tbsp of fresh
1 Tbsp white wine vinegar
½ Tbsp balsamic vinegar
1 Tsp sugar
1 Tsp fresh mint and parsley, chopped
Salt and pepper, to taste
Trim off tough ends of the asparagus, steam until just tender and bright green.
Plunge asparagus into cold water to halt the cooking, drain well. Set aside.
Peel avocados, dice the flesh. Toss with lemon juice and zest, add to the asparagus.
For dressing: whisk white wine vinegar, balsamic vinegar, olive oil, sugar, mint and parsley.
Add salt and pepper to taste, pour over the asparagus.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
TIME READ BACKWARD
TEXTURE AND LYRIC, PEN AND INK. POEMS WRITTEN BACKWARDS.
Is Time absolute? A day is a day, it can be counted on to be only that.
So how can time fly? And then stand still?
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Monday, November 30, 2009
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Friday, November 27, 2009
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
LIKE IT WAS YOUR LAST
In the barley fields, somewhere in New Zealand. Turned out this was his last harvest. Be close to the important ones.
Monday, November 23, 2009
GETTING READY: THANKSGIVING
From "Thanksgiving Recipe: Just Chill"by Mark Bittman, The New York Times, 11/21/09
"Your grandmother did not have to worry about (the stressful crazy planning that goes into Thanksgiving these days - indeed, that goes into everything we do, trying to be perfect in Modern Day America); a turkey (used to be) a turkey. Your turkey, however, must be free range and organic, and your sweet potatoes should be heirloom and local. Not only should you pick our own pumpkin, you should process it yourself (while hearing the voice of Martha Stewart say that she would never throw away the seeds — such a tragedy that would be!), and not only should you make your own fudge, but you should use the appropriate (fair trade and high cocoa content) chocolate. It’s a wonder you’re not making your own marshmallows, though Martha thinks perhaps you should.
Put this all together, along with your own sense of inadequacy (if you don’t have one, congrats — but are you sure?) and you have a situation that cannot be other than overwhelming.
But friends, let’s pause for a second, and ask: When did performance anxiety and guilt become prerequisites for offering family and friends nourishment hospitality? At Thanksgiving, cooking should be one of the more relaxing things we do. Everyone is aware of the stresses of Thanksgiving, and nearly everyone — the in-laws’ odd friends aside — is appreciative of your time and effort. They really don’t care if your serving spoon is a spatula.
So, cooks: Say “Om,” and pretend the situation is reversed. You are going to your cousin’s, your mother’s, your sister-in-law’s, your best friend’s. These are people you love, you’re happy to have been invited, and you’re looking forward to gorging, perhaps drinking too much, yelling across the table, laughing out loud. This is the spirit in which most of your guests will be arriving. They’re glad you’re cooking for them, and they’re rooting for you.
Forget your fears, relax, and enjoy it. It doesn’t have to be perfect to be good."
"Your grandmother did not have to worry about (the stressful crazy planning that goes into Thanksgiving these days - indeed, that goes into everything we do, trying to be perfect in Modern Day America); a turkey (used to be) a turkey. Your turkey, however, must be free range and organic, and your sweet potatoes should be heirloom and local. Not only should you pick our own pumpkin, you should process it yourself (while hearing the voice of Martha Stewart say that she would never throw away the seeds — such a tragedy that would be!), and not only should you make your own fudge, but you should use the appropriate (fair trade and high cocoa content) chocolate. It’s a wonder you’re not making your own marshmallows, though Martha thinks perhaps you should.
Put this all together, along with your own sense of inadequacy (if you don’t have one, congrats — but are you sure?) and you have a situation that cannot be other than overwhelming.
But friends, let’s pause for a second, and ask: When did performance anxiety and guilt become prerequisites for offering family and friends nourishment hospitality? At Thanksgiving, cooking should be one of the more relaxing things we do. Everyone is aware of the stresses of Thanksgiving, and nearly everyone — the in-laws’ odd friends aside — is appreciative of your time and effort. They really don’t care if your serving spoon is a spatula.
So, cooks: Say “Om,” and pretend the situation is reversed. You are going to your cousin’s, your mother’s, your sister-in-law’s, your best friend’s. These are people you love, you’re happy to have been invited, and you’re looking forward to gorging, perhaps drinking too much, yelling across the table, laughing out loud. This is the spirit in which most of your guests will be arriving. They’re glad you’re cooking for them, and they’re rooting for you.
Forget your fears, relax, and enjoy it. It doesn’t have to be perfect to be good."
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Friday, November 20, 2009
THE LIST, AN ART
From an interview with Umberto Eco on why he likes lists. (Spiegel International Online)Umberto Eco is curator of an exhibition at the Louvre on the essential nature of lists, poets who list things in their works and painters who accumulate things in their paintings.
Eco says:
"We have always been fascinated by infinite space, by the endless stars and by galaxies upon galaxies. How does a person feel when looking at the sky? He thinks that he doesn't have enough tongues to describe what he sees. Nevertheless, people have never stopped describing the sky, simply listing what they see.
Lovers are in the same position. They experience a deficiency of language, a lack of words to express their feelings. But do lovers ever stop trying to do so? They create lists: Your eyes are so beautiful, and so is your mouth, and your collarbone … One could go into great detail."
Thursday, November 19, 2009
HISTORICAL PERSPECTIVE
Nostalgia
Billy Collins, Poet Laureate, 2001-2003
Remember the 1340's? We were doing a dance called the Catapult.
You always wore brown, the color craze of the decade,
and I was draped in one of those capes that were popular,
the ones with unicorns and pomegranates in needlework.
Everyone would pause for beer and onions in the afternoon,
and at night we would play a game called "Find the Cow."
Everything was hand-lettered then, not like today.
Where has the summer of 1572 gone? Brocade and sonnet
marathons were the rage. We used to dress up in the flags
of rival baronies and conquer one another in cold rooms of stone.
Out on the dance floor we were all doing the Struggle
while your sister practiced the Daphne all alone in her room.
We borrowed the jargon of farriers for our slang.
These days language seems transparent a badly broken code.
The 1790's will never come again. Childhood was big.
People would take walks to the very tops of hills
and write down what they saw in their journals without speaking.
Our collars were high and our hats were extremely soft.
We would surprise each other with alphabets made of twigs.
It was a wonderful time to be alive, or even dead.
I am very fond of the period between 1815 and 1821.
Europe trembled while we sat still for our portraits.
And I would love to return to 1901 if only for a moment,
time enough to wind up a music box and do a few dance steps,
or shoot me back to 1922 or 1941, or at least let me
recapture the serenity of last month when we picked
berries and glided through afternoons in a canoe.
Even this morning would be an improvement over the present.
I was in the garden then, surrounded by the hum of bees
and the Latin names of flowers, watching the early light
flash off the slanted windows of the greenhouse
and silver the limbs on the rows of dark hemlocks.
As usual, I was thinking about the moments of the past,
letting my memory rush over them like water
rushing over the stones on the bottom of a stream.
I was even thinking a little about the future, that place
where people are doing a dance we cannot imagine,
a dance whose name we can only guess.
Billy Collins, Poet Laureate, 2001-2003
Remember the 1340's? We were doing a dance called the Catapult.
You always wore brown, the color craze of the decade,
and I was draped in one of those capes that were popular,
the ones with unicorns and pomegranates in needlework.
Everyone would pause for beer and onions in the afternoon,
and at night we would play a game called "Find the Cow."
Everything was hand-lettered then, not like today.
Where has the summer of 1572 gone? Brocade and sonnet
marathons were the rage. We used to dress up in the flags
of rival baronies and conquer one another in cold rooms of stone.
Out on the dance floor we were all doing the Struggle
while your sister practiced the Daphne all alone in her room.
We borrowed the jargon of farriers for our slang.
These days language seems transparent a badly broken code.
The 1790's will never come again. Childhood was big.
People would take walks to the very tops of hills
and write down what they saw in their journals without speaking.
Our collars were high and our hats were extremely soft.
We would surprise each other with alphabets made of twigs.
It was a wonderful time to be alive, or even dead.
I am very fond of the period between 1815 and 1821.
Europe trembled while we sat still for our portraits.
And I would love to return to 1901 if only for a moment,
time enough to wind up a music box and do a few dance steps,
or shoot me back to 1922 or 1941, or at least let me
recapture the serenity of last month when we picked
berries and glided through afternoons in a canoe.
Even this morning would be an improvement over the present.
I was in the garden then, surrounded by the hum of bees
and the Latin names of flowers, watching the early light
flash off the slanted windows of the greenhouse
and silver the limbs on the rows of dark hemlocks.
As usual, I was thinking about the moments of the past,
letting my memory rush over them like water
rushing over the stones on the bottom of a stream.
I was even thinking a little about the future, that place
where people are doing a dance we cannot imagine,
a dance whose name we can only guess.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
"WILD GIRL", SONG FOR ME
Forever, I will love Rickie Lee, and owe her for helping me find my way through my late childhood. This song is an acknowledgement that she heard me say "thanks".
COLOR IN RUSSIA
Is this the Russia we were brought up to know? To fear?
Andrew Moore, photographer, in his travels. A gallery of experience, a traveler's dream for a thirty-minute daydream.
Andrew Moore, photographer, in his travels. A gallery of experience, a traveler's dream for a thirty-minute daydream.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Saturday, November 14, 2009
SAYING IT
By Poet Philip Booth, Castine Maine
Say it. Trying
not to say it. Not
to answer to
logic, but leaving
our very lives open
to how we have
to hear ourselves
say what we mean.
Not merely to
know, all told,
our far neighbors;
or here, beside
us now, the stranger
we sleep next to.
Not to get it said
and be done, but
to say the feeling, its
present shape, to
let words lend it
dimension: to name
the pain to confirm
how it may be borne:
through what in
ourselves we dream
to give voice to,
to find some word for
how we bear our lives.
Daily, as we are daily
wed, we say the world
is a wedding for which
as we are constantly
finding, the ceremony
has not yet been found.
What wine? What bread?
What language sung?
We wake, at night, to
imagine, and again wake
at dawn to begin: to let
the intervals speak
for themselves, to
listen to how they
feel, to give pause
to what we're about:
to relate ourselves
over and over, in
time beyond time
to speak some measure
of how we heart the music:
today if ever to
say the joy of trying
to say the joy.
Say it. Trying
not to say it. Not
to answer to
logic, but leaving
our very lives open
to how we have
to hear ourselves
say what we mean.
Not merely to
know, all told,
our far neighbors;
or here, beside
us now, the stranger
we sleep next to.
Not to get it said
and be done, but
to say the feeling, its
present shape, to
let words lend it
dimension: to name
the pain to confirm
how it may be borne:
through what in
ourselves we dream
to give voice to,
to find some word for
how we bear our lives.
Daily, as we are daily
wed, we say the world
is a wedding for which
as we are constantly
finding, the ceremony
has not yet been found.
What wine? What bread?
What language sung?
We wake, at night, to
imagine, and again wake
at dawn to begin: to let
the intervals speak
for themselves, to
listen to how they
feel, to give pause
to what we're about:
to relate ourselves
over and over, in
time beyond time
to speak some measure
of how we heart the music:
today if ever to
say the joy of trying
to say the joy.
Friday, November 13, 2009
RIDGEFIELD GUILD OF ARTISTS
August in Provence, BJ LloydRIDGEFIELD GUILD OF ARTISTS. LIST OF NAMES, WEBSITES, CLICK TO SEE. IF YOU'RE LOOKING FOR INSPIRATION, THIS IS LIKE WHAT'S BEHIND CURTAIN ONE.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
The Blessing of the Old Woman, the Tulip, and the Dog
To be blessed
said the old woman
is to live and work
so hard
God's love
washes right through you
like milk through a cow
To be blessed
said the dark red tulip
is to knock their eyes out
with the slug of lust
implied by
your up-ended
skirt
To be blessed
said the dog
is to have a pinch
of God
inside you
and all the other dogs
can smell it.
By Alicia Suskin Ostriker
said the old woman
is to live and work
so hard
God's love
washes right through you
like milk through a cow
To be blessed
said the dark red tulip
is to knock their eyes out
with the slug of lust
implied by
your up-ended
skirt
To be blessed
said the dog
is to have a pinch
of God
inside you
and all the other dogs
can smell it.
By Alicia Suskin Ostriker
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
BEAUTIFUL BACK
From Errant Aesthete: "These large, elegant and most mysterious paintings of the necks and heads of women are a reflection of Christian de Laubadere's fascination with the sophistication and sensuality of women, past and present.Medium: Paper using lead pencil, smoke and charcoal. Printed and embroidered fabric
Monday, November 9, 2009
Friday, November 6, 2009
URBAN COLORS
Looking down from where the color saturates. People are the dots on the pallette. Shadows are the mixed pigment. People color is the true.Artist, David Kapp
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
WOMEN
CELEBRATION IN COLOR. Friends in Charlotte celebrate the installation of their very own Niki de Saint Phalle, The Firebird.
LEADING WITH POWER
Saw the USS New York ply up the Hudson yesterday. The ship is built with 7.5 tons of scrap metal salvaged from the World Trade towers, molded into its prow. On her trip up the river, she stopped for a brief silent salute, starboard side to the site of her materials. Monday, November 2, 2009
Sunday, November 1, 2009
INFESTED
AT NIGHT ON MAIN STREET - LOOKS LIKE A GOLDFISH BOWL BEHIND EVERY WINDOW.
- Ted Victoria, "Infestation", The Aldrich Museum, Ridgefield CT
Saturday, October 31, 2009
PALM SPRINGS
My stylemaker friend Shelly is in Palm Springs and she sends home uploads. Thinking about Sinatra and Ava Gardner right now.Tuesday, October 27, 2009
DAUGHTER ON FACEBOOK
WHAT IS GORGEOUS ABOUT HAVING A DAUGHTER ON FACEBOOK? SEEING HER POST HER ARTWORK.Monday, October 26, 2009
COLLAGE ARTIST, 1778
More paper flowers, only 230 years later. Must see the exhibit, the real thing, at Yale Center for British Art.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Friday, October 23, 2009
Thursday, October 22, 2009
ADVICE
Advice to myself
Leave the dishes.
Let the celery rot in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator
and an earthen scum harden on the kitchen floor.
Leave the black crumbs in the bottom of the toaster.
Throw the cracked bowl out and don't patch the cup.
Don't patch anything. Don't mend. Buy safety pins.
Don't even sew on a button.
Let the wind have its way, then the earth
that invades as dust and then the dead
foaming up in gray rolls underneath the couch.
Talk to them. Tell them they are welcome.
Don't keep all the pieces of the puzzles
or the doll's tiny shoes in pairs, don't worry
who uses whose toothbrush or if anything
matches, at all.
Except one word to another. Or a thought.
Pursue the authentic-decide first
what is authentic,
then go after it with all your heart.
Your heart, that place
you don't even think of cleaning out.
That closet stuffed with savage mementos.
Don't sort the paper clips from screws from saved baby teeth
or worry if we're all eating cereal for dinner
again. Don't answer the telephone, ever,
or weep over anything at all that breaks.
Pink molds will grow within those sealed cartons
in the refrigerator. Accept new forms of life
and talk to the dead
who drift in though the screened windows, who collect
patiently on the tops of food jars and books.
Recycle the mail, don't read it, don't read anything
except what destroys
the insulation between yourself and your experience
or what pulls down or what strikes at or what shatters
this ruse you call necessity.
-Louise Erdrich
Leave the dishes.
Let the celery rot in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator
and an earthen scum harden on the kitchen floor.
Leave the black crumbs in the bottom of the toaster.
Throw the cracked bowl out and don't patch the cup.
Don't patch anything. Don't mend. Buy safety pins.
Don't even sew on a button.
Let the wind have its way, then the earth
that invades as dust and then the dead
foaming up in gray rolls underneath the couch.
Talk to them. Tell them they are welcome.
Don't keep all the pieces of the puzzles
or the doll's tiny shoes in pairs, don't worry
who uses whose toothbrush or if anything
matches, at all.
Except one word to another. Or a thought.
Pursue the authentic-decide first
what is authentic,
then go after it with all your heart.
Your heart, that place
you don't even think of cleaning out.
That closet stuffed with savage mementos.
Don't sort the paper clips from screws from saved baby teeth
or worry if we're all eating cereal for dinner
again. Don't answer the telephone, ever,
or weep over anything at all that breaks.
Pink molds will grow within those sealed cartons
in the refrigerator. Accept new forms of life
and talk to the dead
who drift in though the screened windows, who collect
patiently on the tops of food jars and books.
Recycle the mail, don't read it, don't read anything
except what destroys
the insulation between yourself and your experience
or what pulls down or what strikes at or what shatters
this ruse you call necessity.
-Louise Erdrich
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Monday, October 19, 2009
STYLE BOOKS
Curate your Creativity.
Where do you put what catches your eye? The seminal exhibit on Style Books and Muse Bibles at the Cooper Hewitt Museum "Multiple Choice: From Sample to Product"
Where do you put what catches your eye? The seminal exhibit on Style Books and Muse Bibles at the Cooper Hewitt Museum "Multiple Choice: From Sample to Product"
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Friday, October 16, 2009
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