Friday, May 20, 2011

views from Bay Ridge (before the apocalypse)

I woke up Monday morning to a foggy sky, which was quite striking.  Thus, before I had to rush out to work, I decided to snap a few photos.  As a sign of simply how hectic this past week has been, I am only now getting around to selecting a couple good ones for sharing.  That said, it has been pretty grey and overcast all week here in New York, so the atmosphere still matches the pictures. . .   

photo by creighton blinn, all rights reserved
                 
photo by creighton blinn, all rights reserved


  . . . any blending with any potential Doomsday occurring (or not) on Saturday (though hopefully not until after teatime) is purely coincidental. Unless, of course, you believe the whole thing's a scam, in which case . . . so it goes.

As for me, I plan to be around to post some more after the weekend. 

Cheers.

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Spread Your Wings & Fly

On May 7th, the singer/musician John Walker (born John Maus) passed away. Not a household name, on this side of the Atlantic at any rate, he was one-third of a trio of young, unrelated Americans, who banded together, rechristened themselves in London and achieved a level of pop fame often compared to the heights of their fab contemporaries from Liverpool. (Beatles' fans were either better behaved, or their objects of affection hired superior security, as Walker Brother concerts were known to be aborted after a song or two due to an inability to keep the screaming gals off of the stage). Working within the pop styles of their day, the trio's signature sound was filled with swooning, lush melodies, belted out amidst the ever popular "wall of sound."  After three albums, they splintered into divergent solo careers, crossed paths again for a reunion (which produced, numerology geeks take note, another three albums), before drifting off in separate directions yet again . . .

I first came to the group several years ago through my love of the solo work of Scott Walker, who sung the lead vocals on the majority of the group's recordings. Scott Walker is one my favorite musicians, whose work I am continuously returning to for both comfort and inspiration. His presence dominates the trio, yet, John's contribution, singing the harmonies, should not be ignored. In addition, he did receive a handful of solo songs, which demonstrate a talent for singing in his own right. My personal favorite of these tracks is his rendition of "Blueberry Hill", which does not appear to be available on youtube. So instead, I'll offer a clip that I received from a friend yesterday with the news of John's death:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-LEv9KIDtkY

Now returning briefly to those Liverpool Lads, I have been told that George Harrison's difficulties with his group grew out of having to share the stage with both a Lennon and a McCarthy. Without the presence of that pair of dominating personalities, Harrison may have more naturally shifted into the central focus -- on the other hand, it may have been that sense of competition, which motivated him to become a stronger artist in the first place. Might the same be said of John Walker, who was the original lead vocalist of the trio until a Scott song shot up the charts? Perhaps. Regardless, he was a talented singer, who shall be missed.

Rest in Peace, John Walker    

Sunday, May 1, 2011

In Honor of the First of May


Photo by creighton blinn,
all rights reserved













 . . . and as there is not enough room in this apartment for constructing a Maypole, I thought that I would observe the holiday with some verses. I did write something new this morning, however, it's still in revisions. So, for now, we'll need to make do with a piece I wrote last year. Regardless, I feel that it fits well with the occasion:

Momentum

Hearts beating quicker
And arms gripping tighter,
Our moist lips clasping,
Drawing us closer,
Pulling me further,
Filling all available space
As boundaries melt
Along warm wetness
Welcoming, guiding,
Voices gasping,
Trembling,
In the heat of passion,
Bursting . . .



Cheers all. 

Saturday, April 16, 2011

Last Night at Reggio's

Last night I preformed a poem at the Cornelia Street Cafe Son of a Pony poetry series. I had been away from the venue for a few months, and it felt good to return again. I put in a strong showing, as did my dear TC, who read as well. In high spirits, we felt up for a little celebrating before heading home. (By chance, it also happened to be the one year anniversary of when she moved into her current apartment). Without much difficulty, we settled upon Cafe Reggio's for our simple, though no less tasty, feast. I snapped a few photos of the Village at twilight, some of which, I may post on another occasion. For now, however, I shall focus on the pictures I took inside the cafe. Cafe Reggio's is an establishment with much of what is usually referred to as character, which in this case consists of many antique art objects densely installed throughout the space.  In theory this might sound claustrophobic, but, in practice, it is not, creating instead a favorable atmosphere for their good food.  I did not chose to take any photos of this overall effect though, as my taste in framing tends more towards details than the overall picture. I sometimes suspect that it is so that I might focus in on an object, in an attempt to capture more fully a sense of mood or personality: 

photo by creighton blinn, all rights reserved



       











photo by creighton blinn, all rights reserved



There was a melancholy feel to these two pieces, which were placed near our table, especially the top one, as if the bust were of a saint silently accepting the beatings inflicted by the not so innocent seeming coat rack.  Indeed, the shape of the figure suggests to me a reliquary of martyr as much as the portrait bust of a young noble.  Meanwhile, his lady watches apprehensively, near at hand, yet still, powerless . . . 

Then there was this plate with its ghostly glare about it: 
photo by creighton blinn, all rights reserved


Of course, I do not always need to read a narrative into an image; I can also simply enjoy the beauty of pools of lights:

photo by creighton blinn, all rights reserved
photo by creighton blinn, all rights reserved

All in all, a good end to what had been a rather hectic week, as well as a good start to the weekend. 

Cheers


Sunday, April 10, 2011

Poem/Painting Pairing

I have some more verses for you this evening. Tonight's piece has been previously published in the Irish journal Census. The poem runs as follows:

My Aunt Asleep

My Aunt is a rather proper woman:
Her hair always so neatly coiffed
That every strand stays in its prescribed place,
Matching the distinct modesty of her dress,
Plain garments of perhaps a generation ago,
Which declare her a lady
Uninterested in all that “nonsense,”
A verdict proclaimed in that voice of calm reason
With which she so typically speaks.

Yet if you observed her in her slumbers,
You might glimpse a hint of something else:
Visions haunting her senses,
Filling her mind with wild thoughts
Of caution tossed to the wind,
Reveling in the charm and humor of that old family friend,
Dear Mr. Reynolds,
Who no longer acts the pure gentleman,
My Aunt no longer holding her tongue,
Or acting in decorum,
Her body shifting restlessly in her sleep,
A smile spreading across her face,
Signs which will immediately vanish
Upon the light of dawn . . .
*   *   *

I often find my inspiration within a diverse set of disciplines, including the graphic arts; indeed, one of the projects I am working on at the moment draws from seventeenth century painting and sculpture. The specific spark in this case was a figure from a more recent century: James Ensor. I shall confess that I first met Mr. Ensor through a They Might be Giants song (more interdisciplinary overlay). However, the more I have seen of his art over the years (especially superb shows at the Drawing Center & MoMA this past decade), the more my fondness for the artist has grown. This poem came out of my first of two visits to MoMA's exhibition in 2009. There is also a second piece from, you guessed it, my return trip to the galleries, though, while I have been working at it again, the poem still has not been revised into an entirely satisfactorily form. As for "My Aunt Asleep," I do not claim that it is either "about" or an explanation of Ensor's drawing, as much as an articulation of the images that his picture conjured in my mind . . .

James Ensor, My Aunt Asleep Dreaming of Monsters, c1890

 . . . still, I do believe that the theme of repression/duality is common enough in his output to link together the two pieces. 

Cheers.    
       

Sunday, April 3, 2011

Drifting through the Evening

I was in St Martin (French side, merci) recently.  I had never been there before, but had a great time.  I brought my camera with me on the beach a couple days and got some good photos of the scenery(land & skyscapes) as well as the passersby.  For tonight, I shall offer up a few pictures featuring clouds.  For a long time now, I have found clouds particularly lovely, and can be counted on to snap pictures of them whenever possible.  Also, as the sun gets ready to set over Brooklyn this Sunday evening, it seemed appropriate to turn my sights to the sky. Enjoy.

Grand Case Beach, St. Martin March 2011
photo by creighton blinn, all rights reserved


Grand Case Beach, St Martin March 2011
photo by creighton blinn, all rights reserved

Grand Case Beach, St. Martin March 2011
photo by creighton blinn, all rights reserved

Grand Case Beach, St. Martin March 2011
photo by creighton blinn, all rights reserved
 
Good evening all. 

Cheers

Saturday, March 26, 2011

Forms of Education (& their discontents)

"And how could I resist the old misogynist
Who brought me up according to a fantasy?" -"Bishonen" Momus

The Greek film Dogtooth centers on the lives of three young adults: two sisters and a brother, who are being subjected to a rather extreme sort of upbringing (or "homeschooling" as netflixs not so helpfully puts it). They have been denied nearly all contact with the outside world, or what little they do receivee, such as a Frank Sinatra song, is delivered to them only through their parents' filters.  Even everyday objects, such as table salt, are given new names that sound as much nonsense to the viewer.  (Not recalling my high school Greek, I do wonder if the film contains puns or wordplay which are lost on my foreign ears).  The three children know nothing except what they have been taught by their stern, cold parents.  They are physically well kept, healthy and living in a spacious modern home.  For their exercise they have a small outdoor pool, resembling a pond more than anything else, as well as a large, lushly green yard.  This yard is surrounded, of course, by towering walls. The parents employ tales of certain death outside this gated paradise in order to keep their children at bay.

While stories of deadly cats may sound fantastic, the parents are not above including violence among their tools of discipline.  When the eldest daughter is caught with contraband videos of popular Hollywood films, her father savagely beats her over the head with a video cassette.  These foreign objects were acquired from Christina the only outsider allowed inside their home.  Christina is hired by the parents in order to service the sexual needs of their son.  (A sure sign that you are watching a European film -- no American movie would so frankly acknowledge their child's sexual drives).  That said, no consideration is given to the daughters' desires.  Nor does Christina herself seem to take much pleasure from the arrangement.  Thus, she offers a deal to the eldest daughter: "lick" her, Christina, between her legs, and the daughter will receive gifts from the outside world.  The eldest daughter, in turn, coerces her younger sister into licking her.  Late in the film, it is suggested that the youngest is about to offer a similar enticement to her father, before he wakes up and nudges her aside.  For his part, the son is shown to have no emotional connection to his partner, caring for nothing but his own pleasure, which, naturally, is what sends Christina searching for other forms of satisfaction. 

Thus, each child learns from those with authority over them, thoroughly assimilating the only power structure they know.  Deeply ingrained within this perspective is the threat of violence overshadowing the children.  Ultimately, the eldest child will attempt rebellion against this system, only, she lacks any of the tools necessary to envision a type of life different than what she knows.  Without any means of escape from the home, literally or otherwise, she turns her anger inwards, internalizing her father's stories into self-mutilation.  She may not be aware of what she is doing, however, her only act of resistance, it turns out, is self-destruction.
The singer Momus has also explored such states of minds in his work, which follow similar patterns.  First, there is his song "Bishonen" which tell the story of a boy adopted at a young age by "an old Italian bachelor."  This stepfather is obsessed with the legends of the ancient East in general, and, in particular, with the idea of beautiful youths dying gloriously.  He trains his new ward for this archetype, conditioning him with "words [which] were to cut down and to kill the muscle-bound/[And] swords to fell my intellectual enemies."  Every facet of the boy's development is controlled.  He is groomed to be effeminate in his beauty, to outshine an inferior gender of women ("charm is essential to misogamy").  When the hero protests that he wishes a female for his bride, the stepfather instead insists on a male "retainer" for his companion.
As the decades pass, the stepson, now twenty-eight, begins to gain his independence.  (It is never stated how this occurs, though, I have always assumed that his elder simply died of old age).  He settles down with both a wife and a successful job at a merchant bank.  Yet, he is troubled.  He cannot shake pangs of guilt for abandoning his stepfather's path, for failing to die young and beautiful, as he was always taught was his destiny.  Laying awake at night, while his wife sleeps, he can only find one solution: to have a son of his own, one whom would be more deserving of this great honor, and who the hero will raise "to die young/
And lay him in the grave that you[the stepfather] prepared for me."  As in Dogtooth, the father's programing remains until the end.  The cycles of violence keeps spinning, while the indoctrination of the next generation is ensured. 

 Finally, in "Pygmalism", a riff on the legend of Pygmalion, Pygmalion the play, and, presumably, My Fair Lady, there is a portrait of direct confrontation with the tormentor.  Here the singer is a creation of a certain Herr Professor Pyg.  He has obliterated any trace of her previously existence, leaving behind only what he wants her to be.  He is so entirely successful that she is left with only "memories [which]have been implanted/No ancestors you can trace/An accent from no place invented."  Here is fulfillment of all the wildest dreams of the parents of Dogtooth or the stepfather of the Bishonen: complete mastery.  This child knows nothing, but what her father has taught her, has no frame of reference outside of the teacher's.  He is her lover as well, filling her with the breath of life, as well as more sticky substances.  Simply put, she is nothing more than "a figment of his huge imagination."

Or is she?  Even within the limited knowledge she has, she can find an outlet for rebellion.  Her spirit lashes back while her hatred simmers.  At night she finds herself alone, singing the songs of conditioning he has taught her while "Cutting up with scissors/All the stupid sexy clothes he's bought me."  Unlike the daughter of Dogtooth this woman is not willing to simply turn her rage inwards, but outwards, back at her tormentor.  First she vows to prove her intellectual superiority, beating him at his own games, before driving a blade into his chest, reminding him how "the things we whip can whip us."  A bloody liberation it may be, but it remains a liberation nonetheless.

Or does it?  After the creator is dead, is the creature any better?  Is the poor soul any less scarred or haunted than the other conditioned children?  How can a figment survive outside the mind which dreamt it?  Or has she become now even more truly her father's child?

(B., if you're reading this, and I never said it before, you are so right about Grant Morrison ripping off this song for his own purposes.  You'd think then that he could at least meet his deadlines . . . ).

"The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters" indeed . . .

And, next time, I'll try for something not quite so disturbing.
Cheers all