So proud of this particular artist! Congrats – wish we could be there! Love you brilliant wife!
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FANTASTIC INTERVIEW / INTRODUCTION WITH HOLLY SUZANNE!!!
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CONGRATS DEAR PARTNER!
GREAT JOB AND GREAT WORK!
Holly is having a dickens of a time getting there – but she’s on her way! Wish I could see the show – if you’re in Toronto – please check it out!
Found this in my files…probably isn’t even worth posting, but something kinda fascinates me about it…I’ve never been a drug-user, but something had surely opened the gates of the dam on the day this came forth. Sometimes writings (by others) do this to me – I read and sort of get “drunk” I guess, with language and then somehow that stirs and stimulates whatever words fill up my cranium and then… well, for what it MIGHT be worth… here is What It IS
What it IS
is all of these things, trying to explain,
the trees, the flowers (dying), the grass (needing mown),
in line at the store, filling with gas, last nights’ remnant of dream (also the dreams from before, books read, voices heard/overheard/never heard), a multitude of feelings, the way she draws a heart, a star, what guilt feels like (now, then), the difficult struggle in parenting of love and direction, how language comes (or gesture, vocabulary or intonation), how silence, what we do with it, our decisions, who to love, where to live, how to say, what to smoke, when to fight, where to run, what to eat, why at all, what floating in a pool feels like (or a pond, a lake, the ocean), which music when, where, what we mean into it, the grades we make and receive, how we work, squirrels sounds and behaviours, what friendship is (might be), what is learned, absorbed, observed, what we touch, scents in closets (in bathrooms, at relatives, of genders or nationalities), associations, childhood, ambiguities, paintings and sculptures, religions or symphonies, taxes, liking to dance (or not), with people or alone, the postal service, how often, how much, your mother, who said so, aging,
trying to explain,
divorce, vocations, contradiction, philosophy, hunting, mountains, arrogance, wounds, broken bones (or hairline fractures), colors, fashion, changing the oil in the car (the mower, the boat), politics of oil of belief of emotions and opinions and genetics, diseases (like pleurisy and cancer and rust and decay), who family is, how you come by, sexuality, remorse, pleasure and pain and fences and institutions, architecture, advertising, electricity and electronics, pi, mohair, virtual and visual, palpable and “real,” poetry, names you can’t remember (but what is it you remember), can’t forget, incense, train rails, Marcia’s hair (shimmer and idealized clarity), meat, diapers, rain and humidity, historical “accounting,” memory theory money, mythology, facts and things like rocks and apples, pears science, bronze, doorways, “home” or houses, dead presidents, Casio, intuition, astrology, newspapers, rotations, reciprocation and differences, if anything is the same, what repeat might mean, definitions, experience, gasoline, yogurt, how fast you run, if you have arms or legs or are able to see or hear, clouds,
to try to explain this,
there is more here….
let’s see, hear, touch, smell, feel
and death too…
to explain, include, describe
I have filled my head with images, almost. Substances evolving, fossilized. Suggested.
“Everything may be expressed with almost nothing at all” –Jean Fautrier
Not difficult to find. More difficult to gaze.
Remember, great pleasure builds.
Canvas – paper – plaster – oils.
Pen swoop, pencil curve, scattered dusts of inks.
Essential layering and beauty, simple mysterious complexities – the female form
To mix the media, the processing, to express and discover the sculpture of painting, the painting of clay, the drawing of oil and etchings in sketch. To flurry the senses.
I hear with my eyes the wail of the hostage
I smell with my fingers the verdancy of fruit
I see with my mouth the movement of women
Conflation. “Original reproductions” – pattern and design redone yet never the same
If ‘everything may be expressed with almost nothing at all,” I have tried. His is substantial suggestion; though relatively small in size, like geometric theorems or graphing physics they structure abyssals and infinities. The body wants to know what lies beneath, or through, out, or in.
Capturing the vibratory stillness of monuments and remembered events – the meditativeness of gazing and time – with the erratics of movement and frenzy of action. Stay stare; move make; know seek.
“Everything may be expressed with almost nothing at all”
Talk about “prompting” photos! If there aren’t thousands of stories in photos like these…the eye, the mood and the technique combine to provide worlds to discover and invent. Thankful for this work.
At something of a loss, what feels like a “crossroads” except that perhaps nothing in existence is really either / or.
That was not a sentence.
Bewildered without anxiety, I approach a sort of noisy blank. A surfeited absence.
I have the amorphous sensation of being entirely undone and woven up as a satchel of my everything. Every instance of myself threads the material of an empty knapsack that is me, dangling from a stick over the shoulder of the world I inhabit.
That the bag, indeed, is empty. No objects or trinkets in that wee darkness to finger or grasp, no spirits to set free, emotions to unstopper. Nothing within to escape, not even air.
My entirety fabricated as an emptied bag.
All I’ve ever written, attempted, every action, thought, adventure or relation. All my labors, abilities, acquisitions, emotions and dreams; every word or intuition, fear or blatant risk, all ongoing consequence(s)…EVERYTHING – internal, external; past-present-future: is the skin of a being, the form and the boundary, the grafted substance of an absent individuality.
I experience this neither as a blockage, nor an impasse; no meaninglessness, purposelessness or ennui – simply a vague, obvious experience that all I am as a being is my interface with the world within and around me, idenitifiable without essence.
Responsible, shaped, recognizable and devoid of identity – no narrative or plot, character or definitive name, just an inextricably meshed passel of experiences forming a pliable veneer around a vacant hollow.
That all will carry on, as such, until its end. Experience upon experience, before experience, during and after experiences and experiments – weaving, threading, joining…this being-form, this walking thinking speaking shape, this perceptive living husk or porous shell, a wave and trajectory of experiencings.
To feign a purpose, an intention or choicy action as this reality requires some arbitrary groundwork – hypotheses and rudimentary organizational operations. What might this handbag proffer? Or emit? What song might be huffed from this void?
This is where I seem to be. Evaluate. Assess. No pillars, few givens, a smattering of beliefs and bones and hunches, a median vocabulary of gestures. From this – what pretend to build? What fabricate? I find that I want to, have desire to, create. Make out of what is woven – everything that forms me / allows me to be – but in what manner? Open. Free.
As if the absence is realized, the content in-formed, substance resulting from wafting motions and play. Capacity for invention. Something like soap bubbles – materials forming a translucent and wobbly funhouse mirror of shapes…leaking…nothing! Yet capable of popping fragments like droplets or spittle, or words.
This seems to be where I am. I know not what might emerge, but I’d like to leave some trace of the fabric experience has made of me. Scraps or ephemeral stains, artifacts.
There is a tearing sound, as of something being ripped or sundered. She has begun to speak.
He attempts to listen, as if standing on an island of a busy and multi-laned thoroughfare. She speaks fervently, softly.
There’s the tearing. Something rent.
He is unable to hear. Only reverberations, a type of thrum from heavy traffic.
They are alone in an emptying room.
It is silent, but for the ripping, which also is not.
All of her aimed in his direction, what he has trouble seeing.
He attempts to look, as if through the fumes and smoke of a multi-floored building burning to collapse on the ground.
Her mouth moves gently and fierce.
He is unable to see what she says through the sound of the tearing, his searing eyes.
There are echoes, which also are not.
From a distance, things are still, as if a hobbyist set them in place.
She cries in her trying, directed at him and speaking, nearly a whisper, a message so loud.
The thrum and the shredding, the smoke.
Shifting, sifting to gather himself, redirect, organize, to attend. He tenses himself, tightens and coils, as if a reception machine. He is trying, crying, in a land far away.
Alone, they, the emptying room.
She’s given up, folded over, like craft paper wadded to a discarding ball.
A rivening come to its end.
He’s a radar, an instrument, powered and ready.
She falls explosively silent, unmoved.
He sees her, feels her absence arriving, he strains and he beggars the air.
Diminished and shrinking, she retracts to an inscrutable quark.
And he, aware, and alertly entire, listens and looks.