TLDR
ur experience of art is still valid even if u don’t care about intellectual clutter around it. yet if ud like to learn smth new u can read a piece below.
stuff i'm trying to research rn :
1 The Death of the Avant-Garde as Peak of
Art Commercialisation
• The Post-/Metamodern as Rebranding of
Its Corpse
• The Death of Myth, The Survival of Resistance
2 Why Modern Art Became Performative:
Evasion of Object-Oriented Art as a Way to Evade Commercialisation and
Institutionalisation
3 The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly of Postmodern Art: Coolness, Value, Meaning
4 Aesthetic as Reinvention of Ethic -
Aesthetic Consumption as Cultural Strategy
old sweets and hot drinks
sometimes reading a blogpost feels like listening to someone’s dialogue in a half empty cafe in the middle of the night. they sit two tables across - enough for both of u to not see each others faces, enough for u to hear them talk a bit louder than whisper.
it always feels weirdly intimate. dates. places. names. they talk about their wives friends husbands grownup children publishers agents fortune tellers chefs and god. they talk so casual one could say emotionless, but to me it feels almost nostalgic, because saturation of the feeling is not the lack of sensitivity but the opposite. the ability to carry the weight of saturated melancholy makes those talks liminal.
so u listen. u slowly become part of their early summer in istanbul collecting pieces of information about an unfinished works of author they have been researching all their life. writing emails to their editor, who dies year later. u listen about their trip to arizona to meet distant relatives and how they spent the night in the desert while taking a long ride to their university friend.
the “human” of those conversations feels like a time traveler. someone with no destiny yet the one living thousands lives. maybe because i never be them. maybe because my imagination of their stories would never be their memories of those moments.
I remember watching TV as a kid.
It was a show about the ocean
with Jacques-Yves Cousteau.
And I still remember the frame
where the team is preparing for the dive.
Everyone knows what to do,
and they do it
with no hesitation.
They talk about the ocean
like I would speak about god,
and they move accordingly,
dedicating their minds
solely to the infinite depths
beneath them.
It made me think back then:
I want to be one of them,
part of this crew,
on the white fisherman boat
in the middle of the black-blue waters.
Now, many years later,
I don’t feel like I’m dreaming enough.
I don’t feel like I wish for something the way I did back then,
when every particle of my mind was soaked with pictures of endless horizons
difference between art and creativity
is there even a space for me to be ?
while we were sitting in the garden, talking, drinking, playing cards.
the music slowly started pouring from the nearby forest.
slow, smooth sounds of jazz.
we got up, almost dancing—
vivid pictures of carefree summer in our minds.
moving through the fields of overgrown wildflowers,
approaching the sounds
in our thorny clothes
under the stormy sky—
what could be better?
and yet,
with the first clerk in white and black
shovelling champagne glasses under our noses,
i was ready to change my words.
the music was louder here—
too polished, too deliberate.
a clearing revealed itself like a stage,
full of strangers we felt we should know.
heels sinking in moss.
laughter sparkling.
someone kissed both my cheeks and called me darling.
we stayed a little
yet long enough to pretend we belonged.
and then we slipped away,
barefoot and hungry,
the forest swallowing our steps
while we were sitting in the garden, talking, drinking
the music slowly started pouring from nearby forest.
slow smooth sounds of lounge jazz.
we got up almost dancing.
vivid pictures of carefree summer.
moving through the fields of overgrown wildflowers approaching the sounds in our thorny clothes under the stormy sky what can be better.
and yet with the first clerk in white and black shovelling champagne glasses under our noses i was ready to change my words.
мне порой начинает казаться что я все время хожу по кругу. и куда бы ни шел все равно вернусь обратно.
словно если буду смотреть в даль достаточно долго увижу собственную спину.
hmm...
the stone of the decayed temples
overgrown by rainforest green
becomes a mountain, to then
become a temple
once again
sometimes, when i feel sad,
i imagine myself underwater
faded recollection of
an adorned memory
my teenage years
at our sailing camp
as we were learning to dive
off giant breakwater stones
as i slipped beneath the quiet waters
i remember a moment
absolute
quiet
stillness
and
boundless
calm
something i’ve never felt again
no matter how much i tried
to recreate it
as if my mind
had become one
with the summer-blue sky
sparkling through
the cold morning water
of the black sea
This is my cap,
this is my overcoat,
here is my shave kit
in its linen pouch.
Some field rations:
my dish, my tumbler,
here in the tin-plate
I’ve scratched my name.
Scratched it here with this
precious nail
I keep concealed
from coveting eyes.
In the bread bag I have
a pair of wool socks
and a few things that I
discuss with no one,
and these form a pillow
for my head at night.
Some cardboard lies
between me and the ground.
The pencil’s the thing
I love the most:
By day it writes verses
I make up at night.
This is my notebook,
this my rain gear,
this is my towel,
this is my twine
I am already going to a sad, dark grave,
where I will rest until the day of judgment,
Where mighty kings lay their bones, Princes, lords, turn to dust.
The sun and moon will cease to shine for me.
Worms, rot, those will remain with me.
Where has wise Solomon disappeared with wisdom?
Where Croesus, Ahasuerus with his splendor?
Where is Samson so strong? Where is the valiant Judith?
Where is the strong Hercules?
Let the weeping wail with us!
I am leaving on this journey, taking nothing with me,
in a form covered with mortal mourning,
the world boards a miserable white rag,
the whole service of this miserable world.
I am leaving poor.
Father, Mother,
together with my brothers and sisters,
I am saying goodbye to my daughters, sons, stepchildren,
to all my family and friends. I am saying goodbye to you, my beloved spouse.
Thank you for being my chosen one in life,
to divine providence, and I am already leaving for a terrible eternity.
I am giving you here
I am saying goodbye to you today, see hastily, and do not forget about my soul.
I thank my gracious neighbors a hundred times, for coming here willingly to my funeral.
May God reward everyone with health protection, forward fortune,
and support with a heavenly crown.
Wipe the tears from your eyes, hide your sorrow,
wish me peace in the heavenly light.
what if the movement is what makes us establish ourselves in outer universe. and through movements even so light we feel present. through lines. throughout interactions. through pictures and images.
the sublime art of movement.
writing
washing
working with clay and wood
cleaning with broom
painting
baking bread
an ode to tenderness
through sand
and vibrancy
of endless summer
the blossoming
of a desert flower
between the stone and air
expose an edge
so ethereal
that coined by fire
to mirror fire
when blooming, rarely,
yet with so much love
unraveled by no hand
only to dry
or to become a shade,
for those
who can’t be saved,
but shortly given comfort
a love so tender
it will wither
with a breath
yet rooted deep
and cracked earth
to live as long as
sun allows
you were born into the broadness of the summer sky —
a soul soaked with rain and thunder.
we sang for you —
old songs
we remembered
from our grandparents.
every evening, after dinner,
we opened all the windows.
the world outside
became a chorus.
you listened
to the symphony
of blackbirds,
swallows,
cicadas
crickets
of old oak trees,
and distant trains
church clocks
cars passing through puddles.
the school band practicing
somewhere far.
and you were falling asleep.
softly.
vividly.
as the world
sang you to rest.
“i have no recollection
of the geological history
of this archipelago…”
“what do you mean?” i ask
“i do not know when
those tectonic plates
rose from the ocean
and became mountains…”
“me neither…
but what i remember
there was a mountain
made of fossils
and petrified flowers.”
and i look around,
surrounded by shades of green
asking myself:
was there a history
behind every flower
blossoming in this garden?
were there hands—
holding glasses,
cigarettes,
books,
cups of coffee—
moments before
those flowers touched the earth?
do they remember
how their ancestors
once grew
on the ocean floor?
and would they too
one day become
a part of petrified field?
10 томов энциклопедии
слиток тяжелого метала
история о странном отеле у перевала. обветшалый указатель «рецепция» ключи не менее странной формы. лабиринт из коридоров неожиданно переходящий в самые разные помещения: кабинет владельца (на столике неизменно стоит табличка «ушел обедать вернусь к полудню»), зеленая комната с припевающим садовником которого нигде не видно, бассейны, подземная парковка где стоят только такси и таксисты играют в карты на ракушки кораллы и камешки разговаривая на незнакомых языках, студия где переодически кто-то что-то лепит/рисует/мастерит, маленький музей где можно увидеть 1. местную статуэтку венеры 2. крохотный акварельный пейзаж очень известного мастера 3. невероятной красоты диадему из золота и хрусталя 4. временную экспозицию новую каждый раз как ее приходится видеть. кто-то из постояльцев поклялся что как-то видел работника ее меняющую но тот исчез стоило им встретиться взглядами; еще довольно редко говорят о то ли комнате с бабочками то ли аквариуме с тропическими рыбками то ли террариуме с необычной растительностью но сведения здесь не однородны а чаще даже в корни различны. кроме выше перечисленых комнат можно также обнаружить себя в разнообразных кладовках, лоджиях, номерах с видом на лес, номерах с видом на скалы, номерах без вида, комнатах персонала, террасе ресторанчика, подвале бара, ванных комнатах и лестничных клетках.
from the far north
to the southwest
i go -
crippled,
torn,
with some rugged dreams
begging the sky
to allow me
one more memory
of long-forgotten days
how far would i last?
when everything feels
more unstable
the further i go
a strange illusion of a gift -
of grace
and unbendable fate
i surrender
if not today…
tomorrow
maybe
i don’t remember
how my face looked
before we met
i don’t remember
looking at the mirror as a child
maybe i was just too short to reach it
those days when the rain is pouring
slowly
steadily
all day through
with a brief moments of vivid blue
i look at you —
hidden
behind the lilac flowers —
colourless light of unknown words
a turquoise stream
flows up the mountain side
and to the times
when i was alone
left by the day
in the hands of night—
i’m sorry
i couldn’t last long enough
to meet you.
i know magnolias are so old—
they bloomed
before bees existed
and i’d love to imagine
that ancient world
blossoming
with myriads of giant flowers
sinking into the ocean of ferns
fluffyn
слышу ласточек
вспоминаю дом
в мешочке за спиной
гречневый хлеб
гуляю в дождь
не переживая что намокну
последние грозы мая
when i walk past
under the newborn needles
of juniper trees
i think about you
the soul of
brightest green
flowers are falling down
after the rain season
i’m sitting in the shade of a tree
ten minutes late to my train
pink chestnut flowers on the wet asphalt
right beneath my feet
such as tender beauty
mixed with cigarette butts
Basic Rules:
Play always moves around the board in a counter-clockwise circle (to the right)
The store on your right belongs to you. That is where you keep the seeds you win.
The six pits near you are your pits.
Only use one hand to pick up and put down seeds.
Once you touch the seeds in a pit, you must move those seeds.
Only put seeds in your own store, not your opponent’s store.
Starting the Game:
On a turn, a player picks up all the seeds in one pit and “sows” them to the right, placing one seed in each of the pits along the way. If you come to your store, then add a seed to your store and continue. You may end up putting seeds in your opponent’s pits along the way.
Play alternates back and forth, with opponents picking up the seeds in one of their pits and distributing them one at a time into the pits on the right, beginning in the pit immediately to the right.
Special Rules:
When the last seed in your hand lands in your store, take another turn.
When the last seed in your hand lands in one of your own pits, if that pit had been empty you get to keep all of the seeds in your opponents pit on the opposite side. Put those captured seeds, as well as the last seed that you just played on your side, into the store.
Ending the Game:
The game is over when one player’s pits are completely empty. The other player takes the seeds remaining in her pits and puts those seeds in her store. Count up the seeds. Whoever has the most seeds wins.
mancala. game of pebbles and pearls.
you’d love the color of the sky these past few morning.
faded memory of blue.
today i dreamt a milky way
mid february.
i’m asking myself am i running away again? someone is whistling in the train. between intertwining morning voices sharp fluctuating whistle is easily distinguishable. we are passing dead winter mornings.
| frame one
corporations. factories. huge glass-iron-concrete structures confidently planted into wide landscapes. revealed by a narrow aureoles of bluish lights.
| frame two
fields.
| frame three
tunnels. slightly lighted stone walls. long dim and cold.
| frame four
lakes and rivers. places of melted lights. long wavy lines of yellow orange and white trembling on the ebony glass surface.
| frame five
arrival terminals. i still can see dreams flocking around passengers’ heads. their eyes seems distant and absent.
nothing really changes. time passes. we ride through the land not in a hurry anymore yet anxious anticipating future farewells.
we dismantle and take a trip through the space reminiscing of a labyrinth or limbo. the lady lazily humming a song. sounds vividly echoing through gigantic shallow space reaching my ear softly like a summer breeze.
we say our goodbyes.
we part ways.
another time another place.
i’m mourning my unlived lives.
it’s no shame to be forgotten
In the beginning, mountains are mountains and rivers are rivers; later on, mountains are not mountains and rivers are not rivers; and still later, mountains are mountains and rivers are rivers.
Eight Immortals of the Wine Cup. reversed moon.
He was a devotee of ancient temples, a fine swordsman, and a great lover of sour plum wine
бой широкого шага
бой краткого шага
“… stepping across the greenish
whips of kelp, the broken shells,
the polished pink sea-glass
and the little cold stones..”
lost.
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