Don’t Look for what Fits
I am Beauty in Motion
You must Catch Me
In a Moment
Photo: Taras Polataiko, Eadweard Muybridge - Human Locomotion
Via Barbara Edwards Contemporary
For conceptual artist Taras Polataiko, the idea is primary and the medium is the mode of its conveyance. Consequently, his work takes on many forms from painting, photography, video and performance, to cultural and political interventions in response to historical events. Through his manifold manipulations, Polataiko has achieved a conceptually rigorous and thematically cohesive practice concerned with notions of rupture and repair.
Polataiko studied painting, art history, and philosophy at the Moscow State Stroganov University of Fine and Industrial Arts, moving to Canada in 1989 to pursue a Master of Fine Arts degree. Polataiko’s own experience of displacement, as a Ukrainian Canadian is central to recurrent themes of cultural conflict and translation in his work. For his celebrated piece Cradle (1996), Polataiko traveled to the Chernobyl alienation zone, exposed himself to radioactivity, and did a full blood transfusion upon his return to Canada. This blood became a core element of an installation, which dealt with the issue of contamination as the imperceptible element. Here exposure is a means of addressing the past, thereby resolving the future through dialogue and awareness.
You can take the moon by the spoonful
or in capsules every two hours.
It’s useful as a hypnotic and sedative
and besides it relieves
those who have had too much philosophy.
A piece of moon in your purse
works better than a rabbit’s foot.
Helps you find a lover
or get rich without anyone knowing,
and it staves off doctors and clinics.
You can give it to children like candy
when they’ve not gone to sleep,
and a few drops of moon in the eyes of the old
helps them to die in peace.
Put a new leaf of moon
under your pillow
and you’ll see what you want to.
Always carry a little bottle of air of the moon
to keep you from drowning.
Give the key to the moon
to prisoners and the disappointed.
For those who are sentenced to death
and for those who are sentenced to life
there is no better tonic than the moon
in precise and regular doses.
La luna se puede tomar a cucharadas
o como una cápsula cada dos horas.
Es buena como hipnótico y sedante
y también alivia
a los que se han intoxicado de filosofía
Un pedazo de luna en el bolsillo
es el mejor amuleto que la pata de conejo:
sirve para encontrar a quien se ama,
y para alejar a los médicos y las clínicas.
Se puede dar de postre a los niños
cuando no se han dormido,
y unas gotas de luna en los ojos de los ancianos
ayudan a bien morir
Pon una hoja tierna de la luna
debajo de tu almohada
y mirarás lo que quieras ver.
Lleva siempre un frasquito del aire de la luna
para cuando te ahogues,
y dale la llave de la luna
a los presos y a los desencantados.
Para los condenados a muerte
y para los condenados a vida
no hay mejor estimulante que la luna
en dosis precisas y controladas
The Moon…from Jaime Sabines
(translated by W.S. Merwin)
“Monday’s child is fair of face…”
by Mother Goose
Monday’s child is fair of face,
Tuesday’s child is full of grace;
Wednesday’s child is full of woe,
Thursday’s child has far to go;
Friday’s child is loving and giving,
Saturday’s child works hard for its living;
But the child that is born on the Sabbath day
Is bonny and blithe, and good and gay.
Seriously, if you were born on a Wednesday — this is not the verse to listen to~
dievca was born on a:
Early evening. Something about her Dad watching a College Football game at the neighbors and being annoyed that it was time…
Alberta Ferretti – Rainbow Week Sweaters and Hats click HERE
and sweaters all in black with colored writing click HERE
Caught in Your Net
Captured by the Sea
Sun and Sand surround Me
Kissed by the Salt
Caressed by the Breeze
Sultry, Languid, Elegant ease
Will You, Master?
The point when you come home and my nose nestles into your neck. The smell of you tickles my senses and brings me immense Joy. My eyes close, my shoulders relax and you inhale/exhale deeply into my hair. The tension rolls off. Peace.
The flesh may not be perfect, but the nooks, crannies, and scars read like poetry. The epic piece is called You. And the pleasure derived from the re-reading of the work cannot be measured. It is a treasure of Life, of Us.
The quote from Walt Whitman applies in its short form.
In the long form, one us falls short and it’s not you.
But, the sentiments do offer an altruistic way to live life.
This is what you shall do
“This is what you shall do; Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families, read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life, re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul, and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body.”
“This is what you shall do…” by Walt Whitman,
from the preface of Leaves of Grass.
you are tired
read between the lines
Photo: Alamy, tired-traveller-Beijing-International-Airport-China
It was a Maine lobster town— each morning boatloads of hands pushed off for granite quarries on the islands, and left dozens of bleak white frame houses stuck like oyster shells on a hill of rock, and below us, the sea lapped the raw little match-stick mazes of a weir, where the fish for bait were trapped. Remember? We sat on a slab of rock. From this distance in time it seems the color of iris, rotting and turning purpler, but it was only the usual gray rock turning the usual green when drenched by the sea. The sea drenched the rock at our feet all day, and kept tearing away flake after flake. One night you dreamed you were a mermaid clinging to a wharf-pile, and trying to pull off the barnacles with your hands. We wished our two souls might return like gulls to the rock. In the end, the water was too cold for us.