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95996776

June 24, 2003 By Uncategorized

Portrait of a woman in pink and blue
by Joash Woodrow

Joash Woodrow has made his debut. Although he has been working since the 1950s and has produced over 3500 paintings, the 77 year-old reclusive British artist has, until now, worked in complete solitude.

During the course of clearing out Woodrow’s three-bedroom house in March, 2001, his brother Saul sent a box of 100 books to an antique bookshop, and unknowingly included several in which Woodrow had painted over the pages. The owner, Richard Axe, intrigued at the bold, colourful illustrations, contacted an artist friend, who called Andrew Stewart, owner of the 108 gallery.

The following day an excited Stewart visited Woodrow’s home to investigate further, and was so impressed that he took away 60 pieces for restoration. After they were restored a year later, a small exhibition was staged to introduce the world to Joash Woodrow.

His work is on display at 108-fineart in Harrogate, Yorkshire.

95987826

June 24, 2003 By Uncategorized

There is some amazing writing and thinking going on at Interconnected at the moment.

Distance is the half-life of causality. Quantum fluctuations evaporate and disperse in the isness; shouts get diluted in the atmosphere.

I can’t pretend to understand most of what he is saying in the posts that follow, but it makes for a highly time-intensive and challenging browse.

95986956

June 24, 2003 By Uncategorized

Three parts of a longer poem by George Albon, from his book Thousands Count Out Loud:

He reassured
himself with

the smallest,
the almost

unborn thought.
It held a

center that
harpies clawed.

*

It is going
between (the bus).

Part of me
will actually

miss this
music.

A gust of
wind like gale.

*

Waking,
life,

& white
shines out

from the blue
sky with

a sound in
it, window.

These put me in mind of the summeriness of today: clear moving air, with lots of blue and white in it. These poems come via: Overlap: Drew Gardner’s Blog.

And the title of Albon’s book, Thousands Count Out Loud is, I am sure, taken from Gertrude Stein’s A Grammerian:

Thousands count out loud.
The way thousands count out loud they do it with moving their lips.
Made a mountain out of.
Now this is perfectly a description of an emplacement.
If you think of grammar as a part.
Can one reduce grammar to one.
One two three all out but she

Which I found quoted in a long essay about Stein’s creative non-fiction.

95878199

June 20, 2003 By Uncategorized

If you live in Vancouver (or even if you don’t) and you want to be treated to an amazing piece of aural art, phone (604) 696-1328.

Thanks to Cup of Chicha for the tip.

95877671

June 20, 2003 By Uncategorized

Thanks to my friend Brian Creswick (whose website will be up this week), I’ve discovered the hilarious and surreal poetry and song of Ivor Cutler:

Fame first came in the late Fifties. He was lying on his bed with a primitive tape recorder for company and, as he puts it, a story came out of his brain. Surprised at the ease at which he could bypass his intellect he tried again, and a second story emerged and was also recorded. Then a third. Writing poetry then began to manifest itself. “My way of writing poetry was to go to a jazz concert and just let the music come through me and just write nonsense poems, so that one was listening to the noise of the words rather than the meaning. I wouldn’t allow my intellect to get in the way. After six years I found certain sounds more to my taste than others and I gradually began to use actual words”.

Cutler is a strange man, and his poems and songs, which he has read and performed on the BBC’s Peel Sessions as well as at festivals and events around the world, are whimsical pieces of aural art, by turns very funny and somehow poignant and sad, as if they have all been written in a minor key. For years he accompanied himself on harmonium, sounding like a Scottish Alan Ginsberg. His poetry needs to be heard to be appreciated. But in case you don’t have a soundcard, here is a little one to read:

Happy Hen
The happiness of birds is not reflected in their faces. Strictly, birds do not have a face, just an arrangement of organs around the head. If a hen looks badtempered, it is due to a superficial disposal of its features, and if you place your ear by its beak, it may be heard humming a contemporary dance tune in a happy, thready fashion.