tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38416846782232147382024-03-08T03:33:12.784-08:00zoe in wonderlandzoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16526746200112764467noreply@blogger.comBlogger235125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3841684678223214738.post-77566065816506076252014-08-26T14:00:00.000-07:002015-03-08T12:51:52.074-07:00Theodora III<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">As I began painting this creature, caught in the midst of transformation, first in her <b><a href="http://zoe-in-wonderland.blogspot.com/2014/04/earth-day-saint-spell-of-sensuous.html" target="_blank">shamanic dress</a></b> with her guiding creatures-- in the process of developing their own feathers--I came upon the book <i>The Spell of the Sensuous</i> and began exploring the idea that the tale of the Loss of Eden may be one of the human desire to transcend the environment, in the process losing the ability to listen to and respond to--communicate with--the environment. That painting was a gift, and so I made <a href="http://zoe-in-wonderland.blogspot.com/2014/05/theodora-and-birds-part-ii.html" target="_blank">maquettes</a> of the creatures to keep me company as I thought about those ideas, and in the process of putting them together, she gained some deer-like aspects and full-blown wings. In this painting, I wanted to emphasize that the environment is not separate from her, that the whole painting is one being, there is a <i>whole</i>, and this is just the view I have of it right now. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">As I worked on it, I discovered the book <i>Deep: Freediving, Renegade Science, and What the Ocean Tells Us about Ourselves</i>, by James Nestor, and learned of a whole realm of language humans know nothing about and are only now trying to study, the language of cetaceans:</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“Sperm whales produce four distinct vocalization patterns: normal clicks, for tracking down prey at distances of more than a mile; creaks, which sound, despite their name, like machine-gun fire, for homing in on close-range prey; codas, the patterns used during social interactions; and slow clicks, which no one quite understands. One theory is that bulls use slow clicks to attract females and scare off other males. The clicks are very similar to dolphin clicks but more complex. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Coda clicks, the focus of Schnöller’s work, are used only during socializing and are significantly different from clicks used to aid perception and navigation. They sound unremarkable to the human ear—something like the tack-tack-tack of marbles dropped on a wood table. But when the clicks are slowed down and viewed as a sound wave on a spectrogram, each reveals an incredibly complex collection of shorter clicks inside it. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Inside those shorter clicks are even shorter clicks, and so on. The more closely Schnöller focused in on a click, the more detailed it became, unfolding on his computer screen like a Russian nesting doll. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">An average click lasts anywhere from twenty-four milliseconds (thousandths of a second) to seventy-two milliseconds. Inside these clicks are a series of microclicks, which themselves are separated by microseconds, and so on. All these tiny clicks inside the coda are transmitted at very specific and distinct frequencies. There could be even shorter, organized click patterns within these microclicks, but Schnöller’s machines—which record at 96,000 Hz, the highest speed available on most modern audio equipment—aren’t fast enough to process them. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Schnöller tells me that sperm whales can replicate these clicks down to the exact millisecond and frequency, over and over again. They can also control the millisecond-long intervals inside the clicks and reorganize them into different structures, in the same way a composer might revise a scale of notes in a piano concerto. But sperm whales can make elaborate revisions to their click patterns, then play them back in the space of a few thousandths of a second. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">‘When you think about it, human language is very inefficient, it is very prone to errors,’ Schnöller says. Humans use phonemes—basic units of sound, like kah, puh, ah, tee—to create words, sentences, and, ultimately, meaning. (English has about forty-two phonemes, which speakers shuffle around to create tens of thousands of words.) While we can usually convey phonemes clearly enough for others to understand them, we can never fully replicate them the same way each time we speak. The frequency, volume, and clarity of the voice shifts constantly, so that the same word uttered twice in a row by the same person will usually sound discernibly different, and will always show clear differences on a spectrogram. Comprehension in human language is based on proximity: If you enunciate clearly enough, another speaker of the same language will understand you; if you bungle too many vowels and consonants, or even pronunciation (think of French or a tonal Asian language), then communication is lost. Schnöller’s research suggests that sperm whales don’t have this problem.”</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Sperm whales are apparently the loudest animals on Earth--as far as we know--and if they want to yell, their clicks will out-perform 2,000 pounds of TNT exploding about 60 meters away. That maximum sound, 236 decibels, is just 4 decibels away from boiling the water around them into vapor, and is already too loud for air, where it can’t be heard. These whales have huge brains, with very developed auditory processors and a neocortex (that higher-level functioning section humans are so proud of) about six times larger than ours. And, “in 2006, researchers at New York City’s Mount Sinai School of Medicine discovered that sperm whales had spindle cells, the long and highly developed brain structures that neurologists associate with speech and feelings of compassion, love, suffering, and intuition—those things that make humans human. Sperm whales not only have spindle cells, but have them in far greater concentration than humans do.”</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">So it would seem that they might be able to tell us something, if we were able to go down into the water with them, where it’s possible to hear them, and then focus our hearing processes a lot more so we could catch all those microclicks. Then, of course, would come the process of translation. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Dolphins also use this clicking form of communication, and it was in reading about them that I was really knocked over, that I was really reminded of how <b><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0679776397?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creativeASIN=0679776397&linkCode=xm2&tag=zoeinwonderla-20" target="_blank">Abrams</a> </b>had so carefully tied magic together with the ability to shift one’s perspective “sideways,” into another life-form. Like sperm whales, dolphins also use the clicking sounds as a sonar, via a melon beneath their lower jaw, which is covered in data points--thousands compared to our two ears. With the information gained, a dolphin can ‘see’ a shape up to six miles away, or a foot underneath the sand. And not just through sand, but through skin--this sonar process would allow a dolphin swimming next to you to look into your brains and heart. Some researchers, like Fabrice Schnöller, are starting to think that it’s not <i>just</i> that the dolphins can construct sonographic images via sound, but that they can actually <i>share</i> those images with each other, via holographic communication: “This nonverbal form of communication allows cetaceans to share fully rendered three-dimensional images with other cetaceans, the same way you might snap a photograph on your smartphone and send it to a friend. Schnöller believes cetaceans can share what they’re thinking and seeing with one another without ever opening their ears, or their eyes.”</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">So, in this method of communication, in this form of language, we have several “magical”, “superhero” abilities: X-ray vision, incredible distance vision, and telepathy. Not to mention any questions about whether those holographic images are creations of group belief--that is, <i>worlds</i>-- that the dolphins swim into together, meaning, maybe they are creating their “<a href="http://zoe-in-wonderland.blogspot.com/2014/05/theodora-and-birds-part-ii.html" target="_blank">Dreamtime</a>” as they click.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">You might be thinking, well, but humans don’t have a melon with a thousand points of data-retrieval, so, you know, too bad. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">But you know better, right?</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">In the book, Nestor interviews Brian Bushway, a former student of and current colleague of Daniel Kish, who founded World Access for the Blind. Brian, who has been blind since he was fourteen, can be seen here as an adult, riding his mountain bike and teaching other blind people move around using echolocation:</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<br />
<br />
<span class="s1">I first read about Daniel Kish in <a href="http://www.mensjournal.com/article/print-view/the-blind-man-who-taught-himself-to-see-20120504" target="_blank">an article for Men’s Journal by Michael Finkel</a>, which I also recommend reading in its entirety, where Finkel describes Kish’s abilities and his clicks, and shares part of his own brief lessons in echolocation:</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“He is so accomplished at echolocation that he's able to pedal his mountain bike through streets heavy with traffic and on precipitous dirt trails. He climbs trees. He camps out, by himself, deep in the wilderness. He's lived for weeks at a time in a tiny cabin a two-mile hike from the nearest road. He travels around the globe. He's a skilled cook, an avid swimmer, a fluid dance partner. Essentially, though in a way that is unfamiliar to nearly any other human being, Kish can see.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">[...]</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“I listen as Kish opens a cabinet and rummages amid his pots. He returns and stands behind me. "Make a click," he says.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">It's a terrible click, a sloppy click; what Kish calls a "clucky click." Kish's click is a thing of beauty – he snaps the tip of his tongue briefly and firmly against the roof of his mouth, creating a momentary vacuum that pops upon release, a sound very much like pushing the igniter on a gas stove. A team of Spanish scientists recently studied Kish's click and deemed it acoustically ideal for capturing echoes. A machine, they wrote, could do no better.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">My click will work for now. Kish tells me that he's holding a large glass lid, the top to a Crock-Pot, a few inches in front of me. "Click again," he says. There's a distinct echo, a smearing of sound as if I'm standing in my shower. "Now click," he says. The echo's gone. "I've lifted it up. Can you tell?"</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">I can, quite clearly. "Click again," he instructs. "Where is it?" I click; there's no echo.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">"It's still lifted," I say.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">"Try again," says Kish. "But move your head, listen to your environment."</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">I turn my head to the right and click. Nothing. Then I click to the left. Bingo. "It's over here," I say, tilting my head in the direction of the lid.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">"Exactly," says Kish. "Now let's try it with a pillow."</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">If you look at the chart below, created by <b><a href="http://abstrusegoose.com/421" target="_blank">Abstruse Goose</a></b>, you’ll see that both our sight and our hearing make us aware of a woefully small amount of the information available in our environment. But Finkel points out that if we translated the amount of light variety we can pick up into sound terminology, we would say we can see “less than one octave of frequency.” We hear much ‘better’ than we see, much more.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHQOBLzES6OsLEfNlqHmmny67joT-F9H8JidQwXTmbaa6N0Fuv-2G0_fpoQdKkDnWtTfBVyANSV7jfK7xOYQtSdcQXRwSX_yV0EZhobYMUxgV2rjvyU8Bm_TccE0hVoEJ748secCA2hzA/s1600/repeatable+double+blind+studies+are+a+joke.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHQOBLzES6OsLEfNlqHmmny67joT-F9H8JidQwXTmbaa6N0Fuv-2G0_fpoQdKkDnWtTfBVyANSV7jfK7xOYQtSdcQXRwSX_yV0EZhobYMUxgV2rjvyU8Bm_TccE0hVoEJ748secCA2hzA/s1600/repeatable+double+blind+studies+are+a+joke.png" height="266" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“Kish does not go around clicking like a madman. He uses his click sparingly and, depending on his location, varies the volume. When he's outside, he'll throw a loud click. In good conditions, he can hear a building 1,000 feet away, a tree from 30 feet, a person from six feet. Up close, he can echolocate a one-inch diameter pole. He can tell the difference between a pickup truck, a passenger car, and an SUV. He can locate trail signs in the forest, then run his finger across the engraved letters and determine which path to take. Every house, he explains, has its own acoustic signature.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">He can hear the variation between a wall and a bush and a chain-link fence. Bounce a tennis ball off a wall, Kish says, then off a bush. Different response. So too with sound. Given a bit of time, he can echolocate something as small as a golf ball. Sometimes, in a parking garage, he can echolocate the exit faster than a sighted person can find it.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">[...]</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Kish hears the sonic reflections from his click even in a place teeming with ambient noise. ‘It's like recognizing a familiar voice in a crowd,’ he says. The load upon his mind is undoubtedly immense. Yet he casually processes everything, constructing and memorizing a mental map of his route, all while maintaining an intricate conversation with me. It's so extraordinary that it seems to border on the magical.”</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">There we are again, with that <i>word</i>.</span><br />
<span class="s1"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
</div>
zoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16526746200112764467noreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3841684678223214738.post-5066258454566819292014-05-30T14:31:00.000-07:002014-05-30T15:28:01.837-07:00Theodora and the Birds Part II<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-gUFFMQtYNEBmL-m1vEArW3MonpOZ0xAihnfSdDBbWWHg3RenKkvaOCf4unDXUjKLIVSrgh2UdjjlpxivAjB2DftK3-1uSmMdWwFOIBRn7BbG6yyNFwj70LxkiyGeHl0gzZy8Pn2ROnQ/s1600/One+Web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-gUFFMQtYNEBmL-m1vEArW3MonpOZ0xAihnfSdDBbWWHg3RenKkvaOCf4unDXUjKLIVSrgh2UdjjlpxivAjB2DftK3-1uSmMdWwFOIBRn7BbG6yyNFwj70LxkiyGeHl0gzZy8Pn2ROnQ/s1600/One+Web.jpg" height="267" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maquettes created in the style taught by <a href="http://clivehicksjenkins.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Clive Hicks-Jenkins</a> for compositional study.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
may my heart always be open to little</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
birds who are the secrets of living</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
whatever they sing is better than to know</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
and if men should not hear them men are old</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
may my mind stroll about hungry</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
and fearless and thirsty and supple</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
and even if it’s sunday may i be wrong</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
for whenever men are right they are not young</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
and may myself do nothing usefully</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
and love yourself so more than truly</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
there’s never been quite such a fool who could fail</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
pulling all the sky over him with one smile</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
–E.E. Cummings</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">In my previous post on <b><a href="http://zoe-in-wonderland.blogspot.com/2014/05/on-reading-mushrooms.html" target="_blank">fungi</a></b>, I quoted David Abrams’ suggestion that shamans go about trying to expand their knowledge past what their specifically human senses can teach them by binding their perception, and then their nervous systems, to those of another animal--by learning to experience the world as that other animal, and thus obtain information otherwise hidden from them. In </span><span class="s2"><u><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0375713697?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creativeASIN=0375713697&linkCode=xm2&tag=zoeinwonderla-20" target="_blank">Becoming Animal</a></u></span><span class="s1">, Abrams suggests that a big part of what we could learn from any animal would be to listen to the whole of our bodies, to even allow the information coming in through our skin and ears and noses and eyes to overwhelm and silence the voice in our heads with whom we usually spend our days.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“Never having separated their sentience from their sensate bodies—having little reason to sequester their intelligence in a separate region of their skull where it might dialogue steadily with itself—many undomesticated animals, when awake, move in a fairly constant dialogue not with themselves but with their surroundings. Here it is not an isolated mind but rather the sensate, muscled body itself that is doing the thinking, its diverse senses and its flexing limbs playing off one another as it feels out fresh solutions to problems posed, adjusting old habits (and ancestral patterns) to present circumstances.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">This kind of distributed sentience, this intelligence in the limbs, is especially keen in birds of flight. Unlike most creatures of the ground, who must traverse an opaque surface of only two-plus dimensions as we make our way through the world, a soaring bird continually adjusts minute muscles in its wings to navigate an omnidimensional plenum of currents and interference patterns that alter from moment to moment—an unseeable flux compounded of gusting winds and whirling eddies, of blasts and updrafts and sudden calms, of storm fronts, temperature gradients, and countless other temperamental vectors and flows that may invisibly and at any moment impinge upon your feathered trajectory—whether from in front or above or below, shoving you from one side or the other or from several directions all at once. Flying is an uninterrupted improvisation with an unseen and wildly metamorphic partner.”</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Many animals in the world’s forest will keep a keen attention to the songs and silences of the birds, using them to locate any change--dangerous or not-- in the forest’s activities, such as the arrival of a human, or a fox, or the approach of a storm, all information that can be gathered from the bird’s unique access to the sounds and scents on the breeze, to changes in its eddies and flows, and also to their brilliant perspective allowed by quick access to great heights.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">So it was that Abrams’ studies with a particular Shaman in Nepal, Sonam, focused on developing a relationship with a bird: the raven. His studies, however, began slowly, and the methods recall the idea explored in my first <b><a href="http://zoe-in-wonderland.blogspot.com/2014/04/earth-day-saint-spell-of-sensuous.html" target="_blank">St. Theodora post</a></b>, of the story of our loss of Eden perhaps actually being one about our new focus on transcending the landscape around us and being above it; our loss, therefore, of the ability to feel the garden or paradise, and to understand the language of its parts--a loss which left us bereft, and very much alone. So Sonam first had Abrams focus his eyes on a rock, for hours at a time. Then he had him focus on a point just <i>inside</i> the rock, then on a point in the air somewhere between himself and the rock. Then he asked him to focus his eyes <i>and</i> his ears on that point in the air between himself and the rock. Each request provoked some new difficulty, as you can imagine, and took focus, and time, to accomplish.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">During all this time, Abrams’ understanding of his senses and how they communicate with each other and deepen each other was developing, as was his sense of the rock, and also the air. He says:</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“The strangest thing about my time with Sonam and his wife, Jangmu, was how deeply I came home to myself during those days and nights. Rather than sampling alien practices and exploring beliefs entirely new to me, it was the quality of my own felt experience that became ever more fascinating, the carnal thickness underlying even my most ephemeral daydreams. From that first evening in their house, I found myself noticing ordinary, physical sensations much more vividly than I had realized was possible. As though something in my hosts’ way of moving somehow untied and dispersed all my abstract reflections. The churning of words within my head simply fell silent when I was anywhere around Sonam, freeing my awareness to witness the unique intensities of particular textures, smells, and sounds as these registered along my skin or in the depths of my viscera. Their home, with its stone walls, had a palpable density that hunkered close as I slept on the mud-caked floor across from Sonam and Jangmu, and when I awoke in the mornings I seemed to emerge from my private dreams into the wider dreaming of this breathing house nested within the broad imagination of the bouldered hillside.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">[...]</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">And herein was the strangeness: the more my consciousness sank into the muscled thickness of my animal flesh, the more I could feel the tangible earth around me swell and breathe and move within itself—trees, riverbanks, and boulders quietly responding to all the happenings in their vicinity.[...] As though by dissolving my detached cogitations into the sensory curiosity of my body, I had slipped into alignment with the sentience of the land itself. Awakening as this upright, wide-eyed, smooth-skinned thing, I noticed that all the other things around me were also awake.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">[...]Hence I began to feel far more palpably present, and real, to the rocks and the shadowed cliffs than I’d felt before. I felt that I was known to these mountains now. This experience—this awareness of my elemental, thingly presence to the tangible things that surround me—has remained, for me, the purest hallmark of magic, the very signature of its uttermost reality. Magic doesn’t sweep you away; it gathers you up into the body of the present moment so thoroughly that all your explanations fall away: the ordinary, in all its plain and simple outrageousness, begins to shine—to become luminously, impossibly so. Every facet of the world is awake, and you within it. The deeper I slid into the material density of the real, the more I found that there was nothing determinate or predictable about existence. Actuality, this inexhaustible mystery, cannot be domesticated. It is wildness incarnate. Reality shapeshifts.”</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTw-dCjL1REKiptnI0SYEzHCtKECCRbykHrpLEtuQa3jgX8M0So5Y_Gq2Km6iMydu6LeHjr6j4BApTPfjm96RntnKAydTnMgVv2v0soqTUcAR6VAQ4p2owWNsFVStXjfNGk6pTRS5Tln0/s1600/Four+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTw-dCjL1REKiptnI0SYEzHCtKECCRbykHrpLEtuQa3jgX8M0So5Y_Gq2Km6iMydu6LeHjr6j4BApTPfjm96RntnKAydTnMgVv2v0soqTUcAR6VAQ4p2owWNsFVStXjfNGk6pTRS5Tln0/s1600/Four+copy.jpg" height="400" width="363" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maquettes made by Zoe Blue</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1o4kdUkzic33kuiVQdBJ9awzahouSwZwT-UN1QmhlB3bXUEN0-mfejD7WKobxOfEA2cY-NxDr5yWygNLb8rfMh-4PmKv2PZJrE4Yghvu3ZDkBkZv2aZaUU1pS7tyb_FiZgrCkNDFu_y0/s1600/FIVe+copy+Web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1o4kdUkzic33kuiVQdBJ9awzahouSwZwT-UN1QmhlB3bXUEN0-mfejD7WKobxOfEA2cY-NxDr5yWygNLb8rfMh-4PmKv2PZJrE4Yghvu3ZDkBkZv2aZaUU1pS7tyb_FiZgrCkNDFu_y0/s1600/FIVe+copy+Web.jpg" height="267" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maquettes made by Zoe Blue</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="p2">
This segment of his book struck me as so completely in tune with the process Katharine Butler Hathaway described, in her memoirs, as a method of releasing herself from the monstrous grip of terrors and self-destructive beliefs both as she lay strapped tight to her board, day in and day out, for those <b><a href="http://zoe-in-wonderland.blogspot.com/2014/02/montaigne-your-life-and-end-of-world.html" target="_blank">ten years of her childhood</a></b>, and as she tried to develop as an adult afterwards, with the physical and emotional difficulties caused by her disfigurement. She would focus on some ordinary thing around her-- a chair, a door, a table-- focus on it, not as a superior being but in appreciation, until she began to see what an amazing object it really was, until she began to <i>feel</i> the object’s uniqueness, it’s aliveness. And from that feeling, she was able to realize a certain magic to all parts of the universe, and it became apparent to her--it became overwhelmingly clear--that all kinds of things were possible, that all kinds of amazing possibilities lay in front of her. And she went about them. It is true, what Abrams says. <i>Reality shapeshifts</i>. Nothing is determinate or predictable about existence--it’s only when your awareness barely skips over what’s around it that things seem so solid, unchangeable, and pre-ordained.<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Nothing is even determinate about your own body. As his studies progressed from rock to air to raven, as he began to learn the dancing motions of the bird, and the feeling between its shoulder blades brought to him by his prolonged exercises of attention, he became able to experience things very differently. He developed his focus on the bird to the extent that Sonam finally came to him with a new request: to bring his tactile sense--his full bodily sense--into the exercise. He wanted him to focus his entire body to the place where his two eyes converged onto the body of the raven.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">He explained this by talking about the fire in the hearth and the water in a small nearby brook. He wanted Abrams to look not only with his eyes, and he wasn’t asking him to reach out his hand touch the fire or the water; he wanted him to feel himself as the fire, to feel the heat building in his chest, radiating outward, to feel the easing of his muscles and the cooling of his organs with the fluid motion of the water. What he wanted Abrams to do was to approach that shamanic magic of entering the bird’s body.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“After several days of exasperated effort spent on the baffling task set for me, the fruition arrived unexpectedly, when I’d given up for the afternoon and was making my way back toward the hut. A couple hundred yards along the trail I came upon a raven crossing the dirt to peck at the corpse of a small rodent. As the bird leaned forward, I felt something inside me tip forward as well, and lost my balance for a moment. I regained my equilibrium as the bird kept pecking at the carcass, but now couldn’t help noticing a sensation in my neck every time the raven reached its beak toward the ground. After a few tries, the bird succeeded in loosening a large morsel from the remains, and swooped up onto a shelf of rock with the gore in its beak; as it did so I felt a sudden weightlessness in my chest which abated as the raven settled onto the ledge. Had I really felt that? Yes!!! I knew immediately that this was what Sonam had been nudging me toward. The sensations were subtle, but unmistakable. As if the bird outside me had somehow awakened an analogue of itself inside my own muscles. Or, rather, as if the raven were not only pulling apart that bit of blood and meat out there on the rock ledge, but was also doing so in here, within my own organism.”</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">After some practice, he became more able to feel most of the things he saw with his eyes, so that he was able to experience the gentle motions of a field of flowers in the breeze or the weight of a heavy load carried by a child, or even sensations related to particular types of clouds. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Since the theories of evolution suggest that we have done much of this before--transforming from fish to lizard to bird, or stretching out deep inside the soil as seemingly endless mycelial mats--perhaps what is really happening with this kind of intensely focused perception is an entry into non-linear time: into the same Dreamtime he talked about in </span><span class="s2">The Spell of the Sensuous</span><span class="s1">. He explains there that the Dreamtime is not a time properly understood to be in the past, a time which is over, even though it is the time which tells the story that explains the shape of the land and the relations of the people and other animals and the plants that make it up. It is like that <b><a href="http://zoe-in-wonderland.blogspot.com/2009/10/nature-of-absurd-end-of-world-and-its.html" target="_blank">latent image</a></b>--a story you tell yourself about yourself which then controls what you see, what you miss, what ‘happens’ around you. It is a dream, and as in a dream, all the animate and inanimate beings around you quiver with a certain magic, which physics calls potential, and which can be seen, even, at some incredibly microscopic level where the vibration of your atoms becomes apparent. <i>That</i> is a time which is also a place, and you can move around within it and, if you focus, <i>feel</i> it from a different part of your consciousness--say, that of a bird. And if you can experience the story you are a part of from a different angle, then you have loosened the chains of your own character-arc, and reality shape-shifts around you (and inside you).</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg43sBq_023jBQNsaSDRv9gpW1ySBdFFm2ILRUpzeLeHKGGpVcmvYW-DI3MIMWx3AT6SCZxlQi7dFTZBCXAVjkHQdjkN58SJHl1xSbc3WqgC2Tcp_XKGGVYOpVdxDGxAKJhgbqgTKzkhaY/s1600/Two.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg43sBq_023jBQNsaSDRv9gpW1ySBdFFm2ILRUpzeLeHKGGpVcmvYW-DI3MIMWx3AT6SCZxlQi7dFTZBCXAVjkHQdjkN58SJHl1xSbc3WqgC2Tcp_XKGGVYOpVdxDGxAKJhgbqgTKzkhaY/s1600/Two.jpg" height="400" width="273" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maquettes by Zoe Blue</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">And this brings me back to St. Theodora, to her desire for her hair to become the trees, her blood the water to feed them, and her body a church. Reading Abrams’ </span><span class="s2">Becoming Animal</span><span class="s1">, I begin to see that church as the temple, the space in which the different aspects of the earth meet, change one another, and disperse again:</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“Was this, then, the truth of perception—the body subtly blending itself with every phenomenon that it perceives? During those days, it began to seem as though my body was not, properly speaking, mine, but rather a piece of the sensuous world—and seeing was a steady trading of myself here with the things seen there, so that this sensitive flesh became a kind of distributed thing, and the visible terrain a field of feeling. And yet, as I noted—scribbling—in my journal, there was still distance and depth. The commingling of myself with things did not dissolve the distance between us, and so the sentience at large was hardly a homogeneous unity or bland “oneness,” but was articulated in various nodes and knots and flows that shifted as I moved within the broad landscape: that round rock overhanging the cliff’s edge feels like the right knee of the valley, as that jostling bunch of trees across the river far below seems an agitation within the groin of the world, and the ribbon of water way down there is now, yes, a thread of icy clarity winding up my spine. Perception alters, and with it the earth. The magician’s body is a kind of cauldron brewing potions that alter their powers according to the precise blend of senses involved; he offers these in turn to his apprentice, whose creaturely body slowly awakens, loosening itself from societal, fear-induced constraints.”</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">So Theodora moves, with deer-like grace and care, through the forest. She dons her cape of feathers for a shamanic dance, and meets with her familiar, at his moment of transition between lizard and bird, and experiences the world as a flux, as a moment, briefly lucid and amazed at the precise creativity of her own dreaming mind.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK_X2h9fQp1W5wNRo4clkac49jJXodhJl-_DL6EiDtzOF9u3ljN6oF5lCTT8yAndSXxjdoLZSycvM5eAw9VE9ehVMasKGeRexH7fO5ZBvoVd_CdBdPh9zBk-T0fxet2EzUDTYOS2IC8TI/s1600/Three+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK_X2h9fQp1W5wNRo4clkac49jJXodhJl-_DL6EiDtzOF9u3ljN6oF5lCTT8yAndSXxjdoLZSycvM5eAw9VE9ehVMasKGeRexH7fO5ZBvoVd_CdBdPh9zBk-T0fxet2EzUDTYOS2IC8TI/s1600/Three+copy.jpg" height="400" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maquettes of St. Theodora and her Bird-Lizard Companion<br />
by Zoe Blue</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
zoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16526746200112764467noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3841684678223214738.post-19499358319486782902014-05-20T09:30:00.000-07:002014-05-20T12:26:08.126-07:00On Reading Mushrooms<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiox8sAM4M8TpIxE8U6-avxL6gsWK92-bJHwlD0fexvzt1N6mDyRjEXasuFXo2sspvelge84DKT_QwkVz059NyH6-kMMcLEDlLhl0KfokMYxNxWAmN4lIaogiqdkSPPO5xneY2HgJCYAYo/s1600/ColossusDidntUseBlueLeratiomyces.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiox8sAM4M8TpIxE8U6-avxL6gsWK92-bJHwlD0fexvzt1N6mDyRjEXasuFXo2sspvelge84DKT_QwkVz059NyH6-kMMcLEDlLhl0KfokMYxNxWAmN4lIaogiqdkSPPO5xneY2HgJCYAYo/s1600/ColossusDidntUseBlueLeratiomyces.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Steve Axford (Blue Leratiomyces)<br />
Mr. Axford says: "My photography has been my avenue into this world as it slows me down and allows me to look at things more closely."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
All images in this post are <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/steveaxford/" target="_blank">Steve Axford’s</a> marvelous fungi photos (<a href="http://www.thisiscolossal.com/category/photography/" target="_blank">VIA</a>).<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3iSD9cK0Bfus5BeP67pKt7iwRDET2dTDtdl7fW9A9lM7dHXQvO8HfOCaSrkbeZJI7ll5WgWzaRvJj93LZuKH5qs6xcVIiaU14hbRkTFPs4V5ZvXrOQJGgK1M_XyHAGLF5gqH4ptu-BrI/s1600/6877540987_d3e9962941_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3iSD9cK0Bfus5BeP67pKt7iwRDET2dTDtdl7fW9A9lM7dHXQvO8HfOCaSrkbeZJI7ll5WgWzaRvJj93LZuKH5qs6xcVIiaU14hbRkTFPs4V5ZvXrOQJGgK1M_XyHAGLF5gqH4ptu-BrI/s1600/6877540987_d3e9962941_b.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Steve Axford<br />
He says, "While doing this [photography] I have developed an acute interest in the way things fit together (the ecology). Nothing exists in isolation and the more you look, the more you find. "</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggmG1zfKsO1ILBBPNLDWkVh2t4TrVCicL3dvY132zXWmevOSuMdyNvrjLsgoJ9RbY9JneykamYBU7YT7eRG2ROMpy71XVXZxmSnWSH-05AruV621wCkI9E-EiaNdA7OkdMu_rncg1lHo0/s1600/ColossusDidntUseThisBlueLeratiomyces.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggmG1zfKsO1ILBBPNLDWkVh2t4TrVCicL3dvY132zXWmevOSuMdyNvrjLsgoJ9RbY9JneykamYBU7YT7eRG2ROMpy71XVXZxmSnWSH-05AruV621wCkI9E-EiaNdA7OkdMu_rncg1lHo0/s1600/ColossusDidntUseThisBlueLeratiomyces.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Steve Axford (Blue Leratiomyces)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAr5D1zT3XW9vrAlV-NneyMFcCv9owId-SbG7kD4-lROiguDLvk5tzxTlQ1sd3hJyQY5KkaACT0zf-B65j4XNmbk8jxuZP5BbDYGuCG5AaZSNkv82UShwDIWEubPZ84tKWYVf0aPsr6Qo/s1600/8393800197_87d1ee842e_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAr5D1zT3XW9vrAlV-NneyMFcCv9owId-SbG7kD4-lROiguDLvk5tzxTlQ1sd3hJyQY5KkaACT0zf-B65j4XNmbk8jxuZP5BbDYGuCG5AaZSNkv82UShwDIWEubPZ84tKWYVf0aPsr6Qo/s1600/8393800197_87d1ee842e_b.jpg" height="250" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Steve Axford</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
The world’s largest organism--that we know of so far-- is a thousand-acre fungal (mycelial) mat in Oregon’s Blue Mountains. It covers 2,384 acres, or 10 square km, or 4 square miles. Its age estimation is based on its current growth rate as 2,400 years old, but <a href="http://www.scientificamerican.com/article/strange-but-true-largest-organism-is-fungus/" target="_blank">some place it</a> at 8,650 years. The fungi of its genus, <i>Armillaria</i>, produce yellow capped and sweet mushrooms, so-called Honey Mushrooms. Unfortunately, everything I found about them discussed their pathogenicity (they kill conifers), but there are some pretty amazingly helpful (in my human opinion) fungi out there also.<br />
<br />
In the February 2008 issue of Sun Magazine, Derrick Jensen interviews <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1580085792?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creativeASIN=1580085792&linkCode=xm2&tag=zoeinwonderla-20" target="_blank">Paul Stamets</a>, saying in his introduction:<br />
“When we think of fungi, most of us picture mushrooms, those slightly mysterious, potentially poisonous denizens of dark, damp places. But a mushroom is just the fruit of the mycelium, which is an underground network of rootlike fibers that can stretch for miles. Stamets calls mycelia the “grand disassemblers of nature” because they break down complex substances into simpler components. For example, some fungi can take apart the hydrogen-carbon bonds that hold petroleum products together. Others have shown the potential to clean up nerve-gas agents, dioxins, and plastics. They may even be skilled enough to undo the ecological damage pollution has wrought.<br />
Since reading Mycelium Running, I’ve begun to consider the possibility that mycelia know something we don’t. Stamets believes they have not just the ability to protect the environment but the intelligence to do so on purpose. His theory stems in part from the fact that mycelia transmit information across their huge networks using the same neurotransmitters that our brains do: the chemicals that allow us to think. In fact, recent discoveries suggest that humans are more closely related to fungi than we are to plants.<br />
Almost since life began on earth, mycelia have performed important ecological roles: nourishing ecosystems, repairing them, and sometimes even helping create them. The fungi’s exquisitely fine filaments absorb nutrients from the soil and then trade them with the roots of plants for some of the energy that the plants produce through photosynthesis. No plant community could exist without mycelia.’<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxh4yVIB_04U8IWS9_dEfSsrSCu2FIxnYuJohuWL5Dw_nb-t_eKe5oNxBEDe11K2IYh19vBSOmBXGVlz13MhRcFaAzVqkut-2OfJRlPdVpCHUkjHwvy82dqadazz7oNEn-lbsxTYGGbQo/s1600/ColossusDidntUseSnowball.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxh4yVIB_04U8IWS9_dEfSsrSCu2FIxnYuJohuWL5Dw_nb-t_eKe5oNxBEDe11K2IYh19vBSOmBXGVlz13MhRcFaAzVqkut-2OfJRlPdVpCHUkjHwvy82dqadazz7oNEn-lbsxTYGGbQo/s1600/ColossusDidntUseSnowball.jpg" height="250" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Steve Axford (Snowball)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
Stamets talks in the interview of a type of fungus (Curvularia) that grows on certain grasses at Yellowstone’s hot springs and Lassen Volcanic Park which allow the grasses to survive contact with water up to 160 degrees (F). After a series of laboratory surprises, scientists discovered that it wasn’t just the fungus but the fungus paired with a virus which transferred this ability to withstand heat to the grasses it was symbiotically living with. This raised the question from the interviewer of where, in the three, did one organism stop and the other begin, since the abilities of one were apparently enjoyed via osmosis by another? Stamets’s response includes an intriguing idea springing from the existence of the immense Oregonian mycelial mat mentioned above:<br />
<br />
“Well, humans aren’t just one organism. We are composites. Scientists label species as separate so we can communicate easily about the variety we see in nature. We need to be able to look at a tree and say it’s a Douglas fir and look at a mammal and say it’s a harbor seal. But, indeed, I speak to you as a unified composite of microbes. I guess you could say I am the “elected voice” of a microbial community. This is the way of life on our planet. It is all based on complex symbiotic relationships.<br />
A mycelial “mat,” which scientists think of as one entity, can be thousands of acres in size. The largest organism in the world is a mycelial mat in eastern Oregon that covers 2,200 acres and is more than two thousand years old. Its survival strategy is somewhat mysterious. We have five or six layers of skin to protect us from infection; the mycelium has one cell wall. How is it that this vast mycelial network, which is surrounded by hundreds of millions of microbes all trying to eat it, is protected by one cell wall? I believe it’s because the mycelium is in constant biochemical communication with its ecosystem.<br />
I think these mycelial mats are neurological networks. They’re sentient, they’re aware, and they’re highly evolved. They have external stomachs, which produce enzymes and acids to digest nutrients outside the mycelium, and then bring in those compounds that it needs for nutrition. As you walk through a forest, you break twigs underneath your feet, and the mycelium surges upward to capture those newly available nutrients as quickly as possible. I say they have “lungs,” because they are inhaling oxygen and exhaling carbon dioxide, just like we are. I say they are sentient, because they produce pharmacological compounds — which can activate receptor sites in our neurons — and also serotonin-like compounds, including psilocybin, the hallucinogen found in some mushrooms. This speaks to the fact that there is an evolutionary common denominator between fungi and humans. We evolved from fungi. We took an overground route. The fungi took the route of producing these underground networks that are highly resilient and extremely adaptive: if you disturb a mycelial network, it just regrows. It might even benefit from the disturbance.”<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1DiO0SJvITgFuRYm35RjkZoZaccUaJJQwNh4DgAgs_A1mJ7kN3SzSzC1N6aysgfSfU_yqq3P3VwrgzoDuSB8EwXkoRn3tPpXeYA3EBfX4Zk1py7ZdlaJaxx_8JEDbQVMaEADiWLUmZH0/s1600/Panus+fasciatus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1DiO0SJvITgFuRYm35RjkZoZaccUaJJQwNh4DgAgs_A1mJ7kN3SzSzC1N6aysgfSfU_yqq3P3VwrgzoDuSB8EwXkoRn3tPpXeYA3EBfX4Zk1py7ZdlaJaxx_8JEDbQVMaEADiWLUmZH0/s1600/Panus+fasciatus.jpg" height="225" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Panus Fasciatus Photo by Steve Axford</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Where does “me” end and the Confederate Jasmine I’m inhaling begin? Is it possible that I could “bind” with another animal--say, a cat-- and somehow share, as this grass shares with that virus and that fungus, abilities and knowledges? Is that, in fact, what shamans are doing, with their animal familiars? <a href="http://zoe-in-wonderland.blogspot.com/2014/04/earth-day-saint-spell-of-sensuous.html" target="_blank">David Abrams </a>suggests as much in his book, <u><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0375713697?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creativeASIN=0375713697&linkCode=xm2&tag=zoeinwonderla-20" target="_blank">Becoming Animal</a></u>:<br />
<br />
“Science has tried to push past the carnal constraints on our knowledge by joining deductive reason to the judicious application of experiment. Traditional, tribal magicians or medicine persons take a different approach. They seek to augment the limitations of their specifically human senses by binding their attention to the ways of another animal. Steadily training his focus upon the patterned behavior of another creature—observing it closely in its own terrain, following and interpreting its tracks, becoming familiar with its calls and its styles of stalking or foraging—the medicine person renders himself vulnerable to another, non-human form of experience.<br />
The more studiously an apprentice magician watches the other creature from a stance of humility, learning to mimic its cries and to dance its various movements, the more thoroughly his nervous system is joined to another set of senses—thereby gaining a kind of stereoscopic access to the world, a keener perception of the biosphere’s manifold depth and dimensionality. Like anything focused upon so intently, the animal ally will begin visiting the novice shaman’s dreams, imparting understandings wholly inaccessible to her waking mind. She may spend a whole night journeying as that other animal, stalking her prey and sometimes killing and devouring it, before awakening in this two-legged form. Most importantly, because the young shaman is now informed by two very different sets of senses, her allegiance to her own single species begins to loosen; she begins to catch glimpses of a shimmering, ever-shifting lattice of affiliations and filamental web that binds all beings. Now and then she may catch herself pondering matters less from a human angle than from the perspective of the forest or the river valley as a whole...”<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrGx5uzTksWXKQ6PWQM_I9auO4qFmabKE9UlaWntx2wceTr3vPp35pLMMU3Xngzwf2vajBFGVrIMqb0bSGa_uk7cehAHfO_g9Od8ktRODT31pgw1a01ZgOCLgfjSIztuXEW7aFCzbjOFY/s1600/Panus+lecomtei.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrGx5uzTksWXKQ6PWQM_I9auO4qFmabKE9UlaWntx2wceTr3vPp35pLMMU3Xngzwf2vajBFGVrIMqb0bSGa_uk7cehAHfO_g9Od8ktRODT31pgw1a01ZgOCLgfjSIztuXEW7aFCzbjOFY/s1600/Panus+lecomtei.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Panus Lecomtei, Photo by Steve Axford</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
In an <a href="http://www.scottlondon.com/interviews/abram.html" target="_blank">interview with Scott London</a>, Abrams suggests that in our culture, we retain this ability, but only (usually) in one way--the way you are practicing right now:<br />
<br />
“We are the culture of the alphabet, and the alphabet itself could be seen as a very potent form of magic. You know, we open up the newspaper in the morning and we focus our eyes on these little inert bits of ink on the page, and we immediately hear voices and we see visions and we experience conversations happening in other places and times. That is magic!<br />
It's outrageous: as soon as we look at these printed letters on the page we see what they say. They speak to us. That is not so different from a Hopi elder stepping out of her pueblo and focusing her eyes on a stone and hearing the stone speak. Or a Lakota man stepping out and seeing a spider crawling up a tree and focusing his eyes on that spider and hearing himself addressed by that spider. We do just the same thing, but we do it with our own written marks on the page. We look at them, and they speak to us. It's an intensely concentrated form of animism. But it's animism nonetheless, as outrageous as a talking stone.”<br />
<br />
It’s a very different way to consider the act of reading-- and somehow makes it seem more possible that with the same sort of effort one put into reading a book, one could learn to see through the eyes of a cat or a bird. One could learn to look at the forest as a whole, and feel the balance or imbalance of its resources and relations. One’s brain could then press past the mere thoughts of “man” and experience something vastly different...<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgycaXr-AHyIQXM5s8FOzRuHru9eOksof8O4-7HvEyM4RzkOxOHaSGLcoMKS8VN39OQqNrUPXRRILKFjV5UV1xOb12igb5ufYDT_it0nuCnyw27T7j59Kl0BTXrlbMWLBGxFFWe8bkFwCU/s1600/ColossusDidntUseLeratiomycesBlue.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgycaXr-AHyIQXM5s8FOzRuHru9eOksof8O4-7HvEyM4RzkOxOHaSGLcoMKS8VN39OQqNrUPXRRILKFjV5UV1xOb12igb5ufYDT_it0nuCnyw27T7j59Kl0BTXrlbMWLBGxFFWe8bkFwCU/s1600/ColossusDidntUseLeratiomycesBlue.jpg" height="250" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Steve Axford</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
But for more on the miraculous nature of mushrooms, watch this TedTalk:<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="259" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/XI5frPV58tY" width="460"></iframe>
<br />
<div>
<br />
<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
zoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16526746200112764467noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3841684678223214738.post-57237731707358011462014-05-13T19:11:00.003-07:002014-05-13T19:15:10.864-07:00Samantha Keely Smith<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_8KdHl9kh_7bmt3uv5g9tLY0TWdOjybRX6Prxjvd-iiBwuogByjd4Q38-F2y6KaStkwRMcy3-u9CvkjIkMyDLwLQkmFhtemNOt0dD5C36G22J4obL44m-ymjfDn17eXzz1CScXN1FqSM/s1600/mutiny_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_8KdHl9kh_7bmt3uv5g9tLY0TWdOjybRX6Prxjvd-iiBwuogByjd4Q38-F2y6KaStkwRMcy3-u9CvkjIkMyDLwLQkmFhtemNOt0dD5C36G22J4obL44m-ymjfDn17eXzz1CScXN1FqSM/s1600/mutiny_z.jpg" height="306" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mutiny, 2012, by Samantha Keely Smith<br />
<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Please press the images to see larger versions.</div>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsPTRQDCDiADDkoLmhX4EjYg5xpxMu2QSVFv7x_I8Kn64Kd3W3qpYY04g1q2bRM0i12p-vTet0WBHlzlkIQF9RzHe9IlO0JkR7Vjp3JxD1enAvW83fnkNWvh5xSclWu67HxL9ek0mrCDc/s1600/vestige_1998.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsPTRQDCDiADDkoLmhX4EjYg5xpxMu2QSVFv7x_I8Kn64Kd3W3qpYY04g1q2bRM0i12p-vTet0WBHlzlkIQF9RzHe9IlO0JkR7Vjp3JxD1enAvW83fnkNWvh5xSclWu67HxL9ek0mrCDc/s1600/vestige_1998.jpg" height="400" width="271" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vestige, 1998, by Samantha Keely Smith</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkw85_oNFRjD0FzZztdTJdATGp0AoLgfQuR-SdUABHmdVVvdzGKgp3Wex3K8o9mNdaF6wLoER7skDbKxjth5usmq9e6aRkG-UkzXon0xydFlEgI8eHpt_pSi_Vr9yoMZs2_a1HpDi1Vwg/s1600/alley_1998.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkw85_oNFRjD0FzZztdTJdATGp0AoLgfQuR-SdUABHmdVVvdzGKgp3Wex3K8o9mNdaF6wLoER7skDbKxjth5usmq9e6aRkG-UkzXon0xydFlEgI8eHpt_pSi_Vr9yoMZs2_a1HpDi1Vwg/s1600/alley_1998.jpg" height="226" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Alley, 1998, by Samantha Keely Smith</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><b><a href="http://samanthakeelysmith.com/" target="_blank">Samantha Keely Smith</a> </b>first began painting her dreams, pulling strange, overlapping worlds with gleaming or ghostly figures in natural settings. She had recurring dreams, from childhood, that she feels may have come from a past life. As she painted them, their reason for existence began to clarify itself to her, and she was less haunted by them. She then moved into a deeper place, where words and particular shapes and beings no longer seemed “whole” enough to express what she was now struggling to express. After that came layer upon sometimes destroyed layer of motion and intense color, as if she were re-forming the chaos of the psychological underpinnings (memory, fear, dream, will-to-act, fantasy, all swirling around each other, conflicting with each other, making shifting alliances) of what we perceive as the solid, physical world into a more open-ended image we could stand before and perhaps even try to understand. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBwR0W-s49qYTUahDv2Kn7obrGbxkLFNaTGIJymvBOwHO3FBTjGHxyLGDdf7s2Bm3rHZb7MTV4MgNk04QINI1z93TV5CqaQa3pnxddhnilIS6wDQGBbcxHc_6udXM7OHFsNLa91pFgaAI/s1600/shift_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBwR0W-s49qYTUahDv2Kn7obrGbxkLFNaTGIJymvBOwHO3FBTjGHxyLGDdf7s2Bm3rHZb7MTV4MgNk04QINI1z93TV5CqaQa3pnxddhnilIS6wDQGBbcxHc_6udXM7OHFsNLa91pFgaAI/s1600/shift_z.jpg" height="333" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;"><u>Shift</u>, by Samantha Keely Smith--You can see "another" world underneath...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Maybe, then, from that chaos, without the authoritarian, pre-defined, concrete, unchangeable image we call “reality” super-imposed on top of it, we could re-define the outlines of the world created by those psychological underpinnings, changing the universe as we stand there, and then leave the room to discover some miraculous occurrence. The world we see is not the only world there to experience...</div>
<div class="p1">
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">
</span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtjY18bybCSt2_hdW2cjQDFz7Ikiuktmo_9PV0VHUVha3eYrWlDyRFyQi8pl9O1L7I_cya3MbypYjvnz251YuQdpP7gg1nrG7TqGj-_qdvGzf_qKdwBHg_zM_Pl6QAdsR0Xan6ychWiUs/s1600/kindred_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtjY18bybCSt2_hdW2cjQDFz7Ikiuktmo_9PV0VHUVha3eYrWlDyRFyQi8pl9O1L7I_cya3MbypYjvnz251YuQdpP7gg1nrG7TqGj-_qdvGzf_qKdwBHg_zM_Pl6QAdsR0Xan6ychWiUs/s1600/kindred_z.jpg" height="256" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><u>Kindred</u> by Samantha Keely Smith(The sea and the sky consider a trade, the sun jumps in to join...)</span></div>
<div>
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“What I'm trying to talk about or discover is really this whole notion of another existence coexisting with the one we see in reality, and the possibility of past lives, the spirit world and all that--the idea of being constrained by the here-and-now and the hold that earthly things have on us, our spirit, our soul."</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"></span><br />
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEyFy4larU434xN9W6Tkb1xRrMGMl4IkC-zgah3hK1ejoG7S9TYt7-cy3eeWrONuL9fJAadR4vV8bu6amIqHhnEiTQRWly0J9zMhs1bEZ0IB-ZkCS3Co_I_lWELYDBX6LfiNht8E0Mq7I/s1600/cantos_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEyFy4larU434xN9W6Tkb1xRrMGMl4IkC-zgah3hK1ejoG7S9TYt7-cy3eeWrONuL9fJAadR4vV8bu6amIqHhnEiTQRWly0J9zMhs1bEZ0IB-ZkCS3Co_I_lWELYDBX6LfiNht8E0Mq7I/s1600/cantos_z.jpg" height="237" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cantos, by Samantha Keely Smith</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"></span><br />
<span class="s1"></span>
She says: "... I see the images the way you see things with your peripheral vision because they're so fleeting that I can never be totally sure of what I've seen...I only know a painting is finished when I can see there is nothing 'off' about it, and that it feels like what I saw in that first fleeting glimpse."<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0FexxLSAm205P2SGhFBBpfuKQoXMOyQW6AoaWzSXVPOOCk14LpaIa2e2VRHQeWYqLpe4g4askQjr2MhbloaVVHQ81ky55RrJ24u12QxjYZaz71IvONSV0xB_pYgp0chjepjxO1M1OyUU/s1600/SKSvessel_z_0937.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0FexxLSAm205P2SGhFBBpfuKQoXMOyQW6AoaWzSXVPOOCk14LpaIa2e2VRHQeWYqLpe4g4askQjr2MhbloaVVHQ81ky55RrJ24u12QxjYZaz71IvONSV0xB_pYgp0chjepjxO1M1OyUU/s1600/SKSvessel_z_0937.jpg" height="400" width="398" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><u>Vessel</u>, by Samantha Keely Smith (look closely!)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">"There are two worlds that exist together, and there is one that pushes against the other, that claims the other doesn’t, or need not, exist. " --To me, those two worlds are the one we easily see and the one that is harder for us to see: the one we <i>want</i> to believe in, want to believe <i>into existence</i>. That is the one that takes work, focus, concentration, because it contradicts the version handed to us <a href="http://zoe-in-wonderland.blogspot.com/2009/10/nature-of-absurd-end-of-world-and-its.html" target="_blank">on a plate</a>.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0_vVh7JOzotUbDXo-8aW8KVF1eOAN2Mp9Ks0Jp3MOPovhD8PvUDEkIaWaZ_RNs3q1ecLg__ea70ReLx9r_KMgN-kg2Hc2VA72tc-DfR6Eo1J6Zfd9LeJ4f6jOx8GkzpGVqpRv07ScDnE/s1600/surfacing_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0_vVh7JOzotUbDXo-8aW8KVF1eOAN2Mp9Ks0Jp3MOPovhD8PvUDEkIaWaZ_RNs3q1ecLg__ea70ReLx9r_KMgN-kg2Hc2VA72tc-DfR6Eo1J6Zfd9LeJ4f6jOx8GkzpGVqpRv07ScDnE/s1600/surfacing_z.jpg" height="250" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><u>Surfacing</u>, by Samantha Keely Smith</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<a href="http://www.thisiscolossal.com/2014/04/internal-landscapes-samantha-keely-smith/?mc_cid=e50c91a315&mc_eid=2af74964cf" target="_blank">VIA</a>.<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />zoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16526746200112764467noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3841684678223214738.post-49035088413503108292014-04-23T07:09:00.000-07:002014-05-20T16:53:25.548-07:00Earth Day Saint: The Spell of the Sensuous<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoHZEIRJceGO_uXtRv444uhApUnqMXJI85Ny5j4eAAADTXSqzc_094i5LZm_PIbTi-lj3aI-NU8d1bQlFEZyYuP7UyDexj-glzgWhefndMM3mxWsv86qzGLLJMj8_h70mqS3wkiLVAuTo/s1600/Saint+Theodora+III.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoHZEIRJceGO_uXtRv444uhApUnqMXJI85Ny5j4eAAADTXSqzc_094i5LZm_PIbTi-lj3aI-NU8d1bQlFEZyYuP7UyDexj-glzgWhefndMM3mxWsv86qzGLLJMj8_h70mqS3wkiLVAuTo/s1600/Saint+Theodora+III.png" height="400" width="295" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St. Theodora by Zoe Blue</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Happy (late) Birthday, Vesna!<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“The most sophisticated definition of “magic” that now circulates through the American counterculture is “the ability or power to alter one’s consciousness at will.” No mention is made of any reason for altering one’s consciousness. Yet in tribal cultures that which we call “magic” takes its meaning from the fact that humans, in an indigenous and oral context, experience their own consciousness as simply one form of awareness among many others. The traditional magician cultivates an ability to shift out of his or her common state of consciousness precisely in order to make contact with the other organic forms of sensitivity and awareness with which human existence is entwined. Only by temporarily shedding the accepted perceptual logic of his culture can the sorcerer hope to enter into relation with other species on their own terms; only by altering the common organization of his senses will he be able to enter into a rapport with the multiple nonhuman sensibilities that animate the local landscape. It is this, we might say, that defines a shaman: the ability to readily slip out of the perceptual boundaries that demarcate his or her particular culture—boundaries reinforced by social customs, taboos, and most importantly, the common speech or language—in order to make contact with, and learn from, the other powers in the land. His magic is precisely this heightened receptivity to the meaningful solicitations—songs, cries, gestures—of the larger, more-than-human field.<br />
Magic, then, in its perhaps most primordial sense, is the experience of existing in a world made up of multiple intelligences, the intuition that every form one perceives—from the swallow swooping overhead to the fly on a blade of grass, and indeed the blade of grass itself—is an experiencing form, an entity with its own predilections and sensations, albeit sensations that are very different from our own.”<br />
(Abram, David (2012-10-17). <u><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0679776397?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creativeASIN=0679776397&linkCode=xm2&tag=zoeinwonderla-20" target="_blank">The Spell of the Sensuous: Perception and Language in a More-Than-Human World</a></u>)</blockquote>
<br />
What if the ancient story of the Garden of Eden is the loss, in monotheistic culture, of this magic? What if our expulsion, our great sin is that we stopped listening to, stopped attuning ourselves with, all the other consciousnesses around us, and began to see only human intelligence as any intelligence at all? The word, Paradise, comes from the Persian term for an enclosed garden. Our loss of Paradise may have been our loss of the ability to immerse ourselves in that garden...to feel the pulse of its life, to share perception with its creatures and plants, to comprehend their communications.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXyeccVWV5pbAWW0L_S7uGRwMQ1flTuwMnbx0BqdxnJTBtnBut5Xtqj_4ar-RII-zbO8DtQHp8jf-GQVU8YSbshDacbErkuFkmYz2oUByZIuoWt9LQqmTYtWsuFhptKzBn_K2Eon0H4wM/s1600/Saint+Theodora+II.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXyeccVWV5pbAWW0L_S7uGRwMQ1flTuwMnbx0BqdxnJTBtnBut5Xtqj_4ar-RII-zbO8DtQHp8jf-GQVU8YSbshDacbErkuFkmYz2oUByZIuoWt9LQqmTYtWsuFhptKzBn_K2Eon0H4wM/s1600/Saint+Theodora+II.png" height="400" width="292" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St. Theodora by Zoe Blue: horns are mother-of-pearl</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
The author of <u><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0679776397?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creativeASIN=0679776397&linkCode=xm2&tag=zoeinwonderla-20" target="_blank">The Spell of the Sensuous</a></u>, David Abram, paid his way through school by working as a magician, and later studied the plays on perception that magic used and how they might aid a psychologist, using sleight-of-hand techniques to help people who were difficult to treat via regular psychotherapy. He then went to study with Shamans in various regions of the world, to better understand the malleability of perception. What he learned there re-focused his attentions on the rest of the world--that is, the non-human parts of it--in a fascinating manner that he describes and explores in this book.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“In Koyukon belief, the other animals and the plants once shared a common language with human beings. This was in the Distant Time (Kk’adonts’idnee), a time during which all living beings 'shared one society and went through dreamlike transmutations from animals or plants to humans, and sometimes back again.' We will postpone until the next chapter the question of whether the stories told of the Distant Time by the Koyukon people depict an originary time 'long ago' in the past—as they are often interpreted according to the linear-historical view of time first imported into the Koyukon territory by Catholic missionaries—or whether the Distant Time is more coherently understood as a unique dimension or modality of time, one that is more integral to the living present than it is to the historical past. In any case, and despite the apparent differentiation of animal and human languages since, or outside of, the Distant Time, the various discourses of humans and animals still overlap and interpenetrate in the everyday experience of Koyukon persons.”</blockquote>
<br />
He gives wonderful examples of that overlap of languages:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“The interpenetration of human and nonhuman utterances is particularly vivid in the case of numerous bird songs that seem to enunciate whole phrases or statements in Koyukon. Many bird calls are interpreted as Koyukon words.… What is striking about these words is how perfectly they mirror the call’s pattern, so that someone [outside the tribe] who knows birdsongs can readily identify the species when the words are spoken in Koyukon. Not only the rhythm comes through, but also some of the tone, the “feel” that goes with it.<br />
[...]<br />
Hence the whirring, flutelike phrases of the hermit thrush, which sound in the forest thickets at twilight, speak the Koyukon words sook’eeyis deeyo—“it is a fine evening.” The thrushes also sometimes speak the phrase nahutl-eeyh—literally, “a sign of the spirit is perceived.” The thrush first uttered these words in the Distant Time, when it sensed a ghost nearby, and even today the call may be heard as a warning.”</blockquote>
<br />
If our loss of Eden was much like the story of Babel--an inability to comprehend the communications of other creatures, life-forms, or even other humans via a loss of ability or perhaps just willingness to take the time and effort necessary to immerse ourselves in the perceptual experience of those other forms or beings, then a return to Eden would be the opposite: Paradise would be the ability to shift our entire being to <i>feel</i> the world’s communications to us, thus being able to <i>respond appropriately</i>. Everything would fall into place: Magic.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4rqb33gTg8Z35laWjrtmah9lvEqHmTY3vNc0ipG-aszB_fIutzq9EwKsMCHvt4hd-iP0X0T6bv7HP5BqONclIvYUaK8Xx7FljbPUtwSmKWDf1_U9Otoopo4lJsihsI2qOO_POrTkeke8/s1600/St+Theodora's+Companion.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4rqb33gTg8Z35laWjrtmah9lvEqHmTY3vNc0ipG-aszB_fIutzq9EwKsMCHvt4hd-iP0X0T6bv7HP5BqONclIvYUaK8Xx7FljbPUtwSmKWDf1_U9Otoopo4lJsihsI2qOO_POrTkeke8/s1600/St+Theodora's+Companion.png" height="210" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St. Theodora's Companion, Zoe Blue</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGOjhrTrsY8Cck5MVu3g7sor-glyqOl3LpDCKPdNWH14gYk2D4LHNhfcvlXyDvrAVyAqXrvJXSZd1U2-CFgM6nrsMdK7Yl9-ziuPrcFdGup29g8oR8CD7eEp83tEmMO60-qy7eB7OSDTA/s1600/passion+flower.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGOjhrTrsY8Cck5MVu3g7sor-glyqOl3LpDCKPdNWH14gYk2D4LHNhfcvlXyDvrAVyAqXrvJXSZd1U2-CFgM6nrsMdK7Yl9-ziuPrcFdGup29g8oR8CD7eEp83tEmMO60-qy7eB7OSDTA/s1600/passion+flower.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
One of the suggestions the author makes towards this end comes from his study of the storytelling techniques of different tribes such as the Aborigines in Australia and their song cycles, and where a person is “conceived.”<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“What, then, is the Dreamtime—the Jukurrpa, or Alcheringa—that plays such a prominent part in the mythology of Aboriginal Australia? It is a kind of time out of time, a time hidden beyond or even within the evident, manifest presence of the land, a magical temporality wherein the powers of the surrounding world first took up their current orientation with regard to one another, and hence acquired the evident shapes and forms by which we now know them. It is that time before the world itself was entirely awake...”</blockquote>
<br />
The above reminds me of the idea of a <a href="http://zoe-in-wonderland.blogspot.com/2009/10/nature-of-absurd-end-of-world-and-its.html" target="_blank">latent image</a>, of the belief landscape that lies underneath every occurrence and interaction in your life. Abram then goes on to talk about how the world “got” (or gets, continuously) its form, which is a tale told by song, a song which travels the whole landscape of the country via the path of the Ancestor which first walked, creating the landscape as he did so:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"The distance between two significant sites along the Ancestor’s track can be measured, or spoken of, as a stretch of song, for the song unfolds in an unbroken chain of couplets across the land, one couplet 'for each pair of the Ancestor’s footfalls.' The song is thus a kind of auditory route map through the country; in order to make her way through the land, an Aboriginal person has only to chant the local stanzas of the appropriate Dreaming, the appropriate Ancestor’s song.”</blockquote>
<br />
Then comes the immersion, the sort of hypnosis, that the song provides:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“Knowledge of distant parts of one’s song cycle—albeit in one’s own language—apparently enables a person to vividly experience certain stretches of the land even before he or she has actually visited those places. Rehearsing a long part of a song cycle together while sitting around a campfire at night, Aboriginal persons apparently feel themselves journeying across the land <a href="http://zoe-in-wonderland.blogspot.com/2012/06/not-defeated-humans-non-humans-and.html" target="_blank">in their collective imagination</a>...”</blockquote>
<br />
In this culture, as in the others he studied, a sense of place is fundamental to being. A person feels his environment as a part of himself. Abrams gives fascinating examples from the Apache culture and the Aboriginal culture which describe a great power in storytelling, singing, and words themselves which all describe an immersion in the landscape that is very different from what most modern life experiences. But back to Eden:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“The Dreamtime is not, like the Western, biblical notion of Genesis, a finished event; it is not, like the common scientific interpretation of the “Big Bang,” an event that happened once and for all in the distant past. Rather, it is an ongoing process—the perpetual emerging of the world from an incipient, indeterminate state into full, waking reality, from invisibility to visibility, from the secret depths of silence into articulate song and speech. That Native Australians chose the English term “Dreaming” to translate this cosmological notion indicated their sense that the ordinary act of dreaming participates directly in the time of the clan Ancestors, and hence that that time is not entirely elsewhere, not entirely sealed off from the perceivable present.”</blockquote>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4h2X9iK7AaZFDh3AgCbFHQvWJYGm7qvUlDMtqEu74wa7__9_GXw8bMF0gdmsSLGaYimBK200oF6vZAqGCUsX3OBvA8vnJML-OM5dSKhetWqyjfUjay_3sgpiQ0JqGw60eHOKfs5MCMes/s1600/St+Theodora+Shiny+Horns.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4h2X9iK7AaZFDh3AgCbFHQvWJYGm7qvUlDMtqEu74wa7__9_GXw8bMF0gdmsSLGaYimBK200oF6vZAqGCUsX3OBvA8vnJML-OM5dSKhetWqyjfUjay_3sgpiQ0JqGw60eHOKfs5MCMes/s1600/St+Theodora+Shiny+Horns.png" height="320" width="201" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shiny horns (and companion)<br />
Zoe Blue</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcjgC2zvmnNI8KS6pyzLWRA14SChAmRr3Eqdudm1Ca7Njx8HfhlCoHY_gkBoAXVV1yrO0DMCV6cDLoGZnchupE7E2NcrNtUGkPVqACR_G6pOCJD5VnRc1Tdqz3GXEh1pOJm19UZnyQpC0/s1600/Saint+Theodora+III+copy.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcjgC2zvmnNI8KS6pyzLWRA14SChAmRr3Eqdudm1Ca7Njx8HfhlCoHY_gkBoAXVV1yrO0DMCV6cDLoGZnchupE7E2NcrNtUGkPVqACR_G6pOCJD5VnRc1Tdqz3GXEh1pOJm19UZnyQpC0/s1600/Saint+Theodora+III+copy.png" height="320" width="215" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Here, Dreamtime is the “time” of the creation of the world--not the distant past, but an underlying, symbolic, living layer--something to interact with, to pay attention to, something to know. If we look for a way to see that time in space, Abrams suggests thinking of the “future” as the horizon, or the other side of the trees in front of you; the “past,” then, is the detail in the rings of those trees, the archeological finds in the soil underneath, including the type of sediment or rock that gives a precise accounting of the conditions in the area for the previous thousands of years; the present is the very air you are breathing, all the scents and textures and thoughts and songs and tiny bits of the insides of every other being breathing that same air right now. All those things are “invisible” to you, yet they are right here, right now--present, past, future, making up one landscape that you are a part of--and that you can alter. <br />
<br />
Learning to pay such an immersed attention to all aspects of our entire environment right now is a step towards rediscovering Eden. And, just like modern psychology suggests that we would be well-served to step back, especially in tense situations, and re-view our surroundings from the perspective of a <a href="http://zoe-in-wonderland.blogspot.com/search?q=konnikova" target="_blank">fly on the wall</a>, “propelling [our] awareness laterally” is also a tool of the shaman:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“The traditional or tribal shaman, I came to discern, acts as an intermediary between the human community and the larger ecological field, ensuring that there is an appropriate flow of nourishment, not just from the landscape to the human inhabitants, but from the human community back to the local earth. By his constant rituals, trances, ecstasies, and “journeys,” he ensures that the relation between human society and the larger society of beings is balanced and reciprocal, and that the village never takes more from the living land than it returns to it—not just materially but with prayers, propitiations, and praise.<br />
[...]<br />
Any healer who was not simultaneously attending to the intertwined relation between the human community and the larger, more-than-human field, would likely dispel an illness from one person only to have the same problem arise (perhaps in a new guise) somewhere else in the community. Hence, the traditional magician or medicine person functions primarily as an intermediary between human and nonhuman worlds, and only secondarily as a healer. Without a continually adjusted awareness of the relative balance or imbalance between the human group and its nonhuman environ, along with the skills necessary to modulate that primary relation, any “healer” is worthless—indeed, not a healer at all. The medicine person’s primary allegiance, then, is not to the human community, but to the earthly web of relations in which that community is embedded—it is from this that his or her power to alleviate human illness derives—and this sets the local magician apart from other persons.”</blockquote>
<br />
So, again, that immersion in the landscape, that attention to the <u>placement of objects</u> and the interactions of the living beings around you, and the practiced ability to tune into those other perspectives--to be those other beings, at different times--, brings one to paradise: balance, and health, and magic. It is the garden, the Earth itself that is Paradise.<br />
<br />
<br />
Throughout the book, Abrams explores the way that developing and using a phonetic alphabet has changed the human relationship with the landscape and turned our attention inward, detaching us from our environment and our surroundings in a way that has had rather extreme consequences, both for human health and for environmental health. But he is careful to point out that his point is not to blame our current situation on writing; rather it is to encourage us to pay attention to our way of thinking, and to work on it, to make “an attempt to think in accordance with our senses, to ponder and reflect without severing our sensorial bond with the owls and the wind [...] a style of thinking, then that associates truth not with static fact, but with a quality of relationship.”<br />
<br />
In <u><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1558612394?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creativeASIN=1558612394&linkCode=xm2&tag=zoeinwonderla-20" target="_blank">The Little Locksmith</a></u>, Katharine Butler Hathaway describes the night terrors that she suffered, the times of overwhelming panic, while she lay <a href="http://zoe-in-wonderland.blogspot.com/2014/02/montaigne-your-life-and-end-of-world.html" target="_blank">strapped to her board</a>, immobile and of uncertain future, for ten long years as a child. Later, when she was able to get up and move around, she still suffered these crippling panics, as she faced her extreme difference and the things that she believed it would keep her from experiencing in this world--things like social inclusion and romantic love (she was, however, incorrect about both). She talks through her memoir of the process of writing being her savior, but also says that often when she needs it most desperately, when she feels those terrors, she is unable to function as a writer, she can’t find that place. But then she discovers this method-- a method of immersion much like what Abrams suggests, though she is not particular about the type of environment:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“After I had discovered my eyes I taught myself to remember them whenever the horrors struck me. No matter what might be happening to me, no matter how crazy and frightened I might feel, there was always the great visible world before me, and I could look at it. When a moment of terror came I could look at a chair, or at a table or at a door, and by deliberately and faithfully looking at it and really seeing it with my whole attention, with the intense and humble selfless concentration of an artist, of a child, of a van Gogh, I could realize and see the chair, or the table, or whatever the object happened to be that was in front of me [thus drawing her out of herself], as I had never realized and seen it before; and it became for me in that moment an object of love, full of mystery and meaning, because the entire visible world became, when I really looked at it, lovable, mysterious, and significant. An ecstasy filled my hand and I began to work. And so I found out where I was to go. For by setting myself to work with the aim of translating my wonderful delight and realization of things into words and sentences I could deliberately cultivate the delight and prolong its visitations until it became the element within which I lived, safe at last, happy and invulnerable.”</blockquote>
<br />
She uses writing to extend those moments of immersion in the real world, to further their relations to her life, to imagine them outwards. Writing, then, becomes her savior, enables her to detach herself from her own perspective and immerse herself in another:<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“Even in the midst of my sickness, when I had believed I never would write again, the healthy instinct began to work when one day I had reached over from my bed to get a pencil and paper out of the drawer of the night table beside me and I wrote down on a little block of pink paper an idea for a novel that had fallen like a seed into my mind from listening to my nurse tell the story of her life.[...] It filled me with excitement and anticipation. It happened that for me and my purpose it was a living seed. Out of it a story grew and kept on growing year after year, curving like a vine first in one direction and then in another, yet creating and maintaining by means of its own mysterious will its own equilibrium and design. It grew as knowingly as a beautiful and intricate shell forms itself, or is formed by its soft, amorphous, yet accurately guided inhabitant. It was mysterious and beautiful to me, not necessarily to anybody else. But that was enough. I was in love with it, spellbound. It was a story about two sisters who lived in an old yellow farmhouse on the edge of Danvers. I watched every fly that crawled over the kitchen table in that imagined farmhouse, and I smelled every cake and loaf of bread the sisters made, and I heard the stamping footsteps of their father coming in from the snow. [...] I was able to build up for myself what appeared to be an invulnerable calmness and joy, and a complete indifference to my own personal life except that it should remain empty and leave me free to live wholly in this new element which was not the real world but a kind of mirror element in which the essence and movement of the real world was reflected, as in a fortune-teller’s crystal.”</blockquote>
<br />
A living seed, which curves like a vine, which grows into new relations between new people, each of whom offer her other perspectives, unique from her own. And she spends time with them, develops them, heals with them--and part of her process is going out, alone (which was a startling concept in itself at the time, for any woman), and purchasing and renovating a home in Castine. That purchase was chosen because of the place itself--a certain magic she felt it had. It was a place with legends of its own which were attached to the very land, and even behaviors that were associated with weather patterns. From her time there, she went out into the world, traveling --again alone-- to Europe to become part of the Surrealist circle, an artist in her own right, and falling in love, falling out of love, recovering, and then falling in love again, this time to marry.<br />
<br />
It is an intriguing suggestion, that immersion in place and “propelling [our] awareness laterally,” might be just the technique to practicing true, transformational magic. That, like the shaman, we might ourselves become, for the moment, a bird or a monkey or a horned beast, and then “come back” to ourselves with new, impossible information. One step closer to Paradise.<br />
<br />
As I studied fire and firing neurons and their rhythms and the heat of dance, I also delved into the tales of <a href="http://zoe-in-wonderland.blogspot.com/2012/04/santa-caterina-and-her-violetta.html" target="_blank">St. Caterina of Bologna</a>; as I explored the realm on the other side of the mirror or at the bottom of the lake, and the idea of having a fish-tail, I discovered the tales of <a href="http://zoe-in-wonderland.blogspot.com/search?q=fevronia" target="_blank">St. Fevronia</a>. I often like to have a Saint or figure that has a religious or mythological (intensely emotional and heavily symbolic) significance; the figures help to solidify ‘theory’ and emblemize ideas...they also thus serve as meditation aids. For the garden/earth ideas I am exploring, I’ve had no such figure to draw upon, not until the day I finished this painting, when I stumbled upon the story of Saint Theodora of Vasta. She was a woman in 11th-Century Greece who disguised herself as a man in order to join the militaristic defense of her city against raiding bandits. In an event that seems to me to precisely reflect the ideas above, she was, while disguised as a man and fighting with weapons, killed, and as she died, she made a request to God to turn her body into a Church, her hair into trees, and her blood into the water for those trees. A church was indeed built upon her grave, and as you can see from the below photos, trees did in fact begin to grow out of its roof. According to legend, a river re-directed itself to flow under the church; it wasn’t until 2003 that geologists were able to use high-frequency georadar to see that the trees were actually growing up through the walls--until then, there appeared to be no root system at all for the trees. It is not easily explainable how the church has survived for hundreds of years with the weight of 17 holly and maple trees growing on its roof (some of them over 98 feet high). The existence of the building at this point really begs for such a transformational mythology to explain it.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3RE-jiqq1NntkiAZ5-4TJ1ARWaJ5mfBLU3cPx_8BIAf_5-rVPZq3VlDUut_EDxgwFVnzEU4bYOr-kQNd3NejKPnlrJERVI3ubHBLgdFH61LPnl07eQH7REFvl6K48wmEr3w9Jdttuwuo/s1600/St.-Theodor-Greece+Photo+from+Listofwonders.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3RE-jiqq1NntkiAZ5-4TJ1ARWaJ5mfBLU3cPx_8BIAf_5-rVPZq3VlDUut_EDxgwFVnzEU4bYOr-kQNd3NejKPnlrJERVI3ubHBLgdFH61LPnl07eQH7REFvl6K48wmEr3w9Jdttuwuo/s1600/St.-Theodor-Greece+Photo+from+Listofwonders.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo of St. Theodora's Chapel from ListofWonders.com</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0i9XL0eFbKasCMhMx233WrlvTY5Yfu53U-xkjHAPfO-WCIa0SxhYzUKEcTt3tGE7t0yxf-MXrZP_FVwAd_Q4oDIm7lN_lvsMSLj6J1_TlmC6kji2nKmb4fZXqwA3fwFWigQm7QkVAYGk/s1600/photo+from+xristianos.gr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0i9XL0eFbKasCMhMx233WrlvTY5Yfu53U-xkjHAPfO-WCIa0SxhYzUKEcTt3tGE7t0yxf-MXrZP_FVwAd_Q4oDIm7lN_lvsMSLj6J1_TlmC6kji2nKmb4fZXqwA3fwFWigQm7QkVAYGk/s1600/photo+from+xristianos.gr.jpg" height="298" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo from Xristianos.gr</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW5FDGkQw8VFeJ5sXzAp-0XIDH_OWUsmoL-AcmUS9UQ2CkZUjLBtvUkg6VhvuEdXKmMOywvvgL9dE9O7MYHt6B0sYjfssmkExH-Vyl0mm6yKqznxs2dI_AkU4wAnwddWviw3tkNiPvYdM/s1600/inside+photo+from+panoramio.com.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW5FDGkQw8VFeJ5sXzAp-0XIDH_OWUsmoL-AcmUS9UQ2CkZUjLBtvUkg6VhvuEdXKmMOywvvgL9dE9O7MYHt6B0sYjfssmkExH-Vyl0mm6yKqznxs2dI_AkU4wAnwddWviw3tkNiPvYdM/s1600/inside+photo+from+panoramio.com.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Interior of chapel, to show that you cannot see the trees from the inside..<br />
Photo from Panoramio.com</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
The Passionflower the monkey holds is based upon the one drawn by Maria Sybilla Merian, which was used for the cover of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/030012547X?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creativeASIN=030012547X&linkCode=xm2&tag=zoeinwonderla-20" target="_blank">Amazing Rare Things</a>. The lizard-to-bird transition comes from <a href="http://zoe-in-wonderland.blogspot.com/2010/01/arrival-of-birds.html" target="_blank">here</a>. The pomegranates were at the request of the birthday recipient of this painting, <a href="http://vesnikus.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Vesna</a>.zoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16526746200112764467noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3841684678223214738.post-20107325941529160662014-03-06T06:23:00.000-08:002014-03-06T06:23:01.902-08:00The Unwritten<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO-iKcdZ97332iPXSGzjdNgMRd5pCY0NlZY9xM9UMmGDmOTa6ZeLbiQB4LMqORhI-qgYhbyA_Hb9wW6PHIrw3CClqpUoto-Eu7eq6mSz6aWQemu0a01iUyDTzrZ0urLwyg9rESwuqcx8c/s1600/AA+Yuko.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO-iKcdZ97332iPXSGzjdNgMRd5pCY0NlZY9xM9UMmGDmOTa6ZeLbiQB4LMqORhI-qgYhbyA_Hb9wW6PHIrw3CClqpUoto-Eu7eq6mSz6aWQemu0a01iUyDTzrZ0urLwyg9rESwuqcx8c/s1600/AA+Yuko.jpg" height="400" width="287" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">by Yuko Shimizu...<i>how does he see?</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">There is a spiritual discipline in Tibetan Buddhism of a certain type of meditation in which one focuses on a being of some sort: a representative being, symbolic, who serves as a companion and as a reminder of certain concepts. This might be a fox, a fox-human hybrid, a monk, a fish-tailed, horse-hooved woman whose <a href="http://zoe-in-wonderland.blogspot.com/2012/10/st-fevronia-from-brocken-specter-to.html" target="_blank">purity of heart is stronger than any human weapon</a>. </span><span class="s1">One focuses on this being with such concentration and such intent, that eventually the thought materializes into a physical form. He or she can begin to materialize even when not called upon, and can be seen by others, but it still will not survive long without the focused practice of the meditator. This materialized thoughtform is called a Tulpa.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“The term entered Western literature in 1929, through the explorer Alexandra David-Néel’s “Magic and Mystery in Tibet.” She wrote that Tibetan monks created Tulpas as a spiritual discipline during intense meditation.[...]</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Jack, a young man I interviewed, decided to make a Tulpa when he was in college. He set aside an hour and a half each day for this. He’d spend the first 40 minutes or so relaxing and clearing his mind. Then he visualized a fox (he liked foxes). After four weeks, he started to feel the fox’s presence, and to have feelings he thought were the fox’s.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Finally, after a chemistry exam, he felt that she spoke to him. “I heard, clear as day, ‘Well, how did you do?’ ” he recalled. For a while he was intensely involved with her, and said it felt more wonderful than falling in love with a girl.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Then he stopped spending all that time meditating — and the fox went away. It turned out she was fragile. He says she comes back, sometimes unexpectedly, when he practices. She calms him down.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">The mere fact that people like Jack find it intuitively possible to have invisible companions who talk back to them supports the claim that the idea of an invisible agent is basic to our psyche. But Jack’s story also makes it clear that experiencing an invisible companion as truly present — especially as an adult — takes work: constant concentration, a state that resembles prayer.”--<a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2013/10/15/opinion/luhrmann-conjuring-up-our-own-gods.html?_r=0" target="_blank">T.M. Luhrmann</a></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Some say that this is the way to keep God “alive”: through regular meditative practice on the principles of that God, until He or She is accompanying you in your daily life. On a societal level--if, for example, everyone in your neighborhood is doing the same thing, and they all pretty much agree on the principles of the God-- the being could have quite a strong physical existence. In fact, if we were to go back to the story of St. Fevronia, we might say that those who can see the religious processions taking place inside the lake, those who can hear the bells tolling--the ones who are called <i>pure of heart</i>--those are the ones who focus on her story, her spirit, her representation with sufficient intent. When we read the studies--like the <b><a href="http://zoe-in-wonderland.blogspot.com/2009/06/perceived-reality-part-iv-dont-let.html" target="_blank">gorilla studies</a></b>-- in neuroscience which describe humans as beings who will only see what their brain thinks is important or relevant to its worldview and understanding of needs, desires and dangers, and we wonder why those perceptive blinders were put on so early in life (around 5 years of age), we could understand it to be a matter of concentration, meditation, intent. A small child has to pay close attention to make out the shapes and colors and humans around him or her, and to understand their intentions and their words. After that small child has ‘figured it out,’ the sense of urgency and focus tends to decrease, beliefs are in place, and when you meet a new person, you make your judgement of who they are and what they represent and what kind of things they’re going to say and what those things will really mean pretty much instantaneously--and what that person actually does or says will be something close to irrelevant as far as changing your mind goes. The same type of neuroscience studies are telling us that we consciously make decisions about 5% of the time--the rest of the time, we’re on autopilot, marching our way through life to a tune we can barely hear. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">How many of the religious <i>really pray</i>? How many people will take five minutes out of their day to blank their minds of lists and concerns and plans, and focus on an <i>ideal</i>, however important they may claim that ideal to be?</span></div>
<br />
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKDMuztbcVNgTzTuCPqYKejYyKj6brGGu0sROomFcCEVuD2M-0PyYLozZ2Qyl7T4M2FvCIHSLe7YOSkhhcEjc_d1JBnV_ooh55Bac2Qa6iPQDON-GFQwXdWiDvxQvc67_bdiUogG5p4oc/s1600/old+man+brain+house.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKDMuztbcVNgTzTuCPqYKejYyKj6brGGu0sROomFcCEVuD2M-0PyYLozZ2Qyl7T4M2FvCIHSLe7YOSkhhcEjc_d1JBnV_ooh55Bac2Qa6iPQDON-GFQwXdWiDvxQvc67_bdiUogG5p4oc/s1600/old+man+brain+house.jpg" height="400" width="301" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">by Yuko Shimizu</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Here’s a thought: artists do it. Readers do it. Writers do it. Brand-new lovers do it. Not all of them, of course, but when you are stopped, in your rush to get somewhere or do something, by an image, that is a moment of opportunity. What stopped you about the image? What didn’t fit in your perceptual bias, making you suddenly consciously aware of your surroundings? Don’t discard it and move on! <i>Pay Attention</i>. Maybe it was the colors, maybe a sense of motion, or a sense of suspension; maybe an interaction between the depicted characters struck an emotional chord or a curiosity. What is the story behind the image, and how is it different from the one you usually believe to underly the world’s events and the interactions of the people around you? When you read a book, and you don’t want to put it down to sleep, or use the bathroom, or eat, or go to work, you have <i>sunk</i> into another way of being and seeing. Your brain is experiencing events <i>as if</i> they were occurring in the physical space around you, you are taking in the feelings and behaviors and traumas and excitements as your own (so be careful). This experience offers an opportunity to alter your own perception, to see the world in a slightly different light, and if you were to, for example, when you finish the book, call up a character in your mind and converse with him or her, if you were to really visualize the character--skin-tone, scent, hair-texture, style of dress, voice-print, style of speech--and then spend time with him or her, speak with her, listen to what she has to say, could those interactions change who you are and the world around you? Could you even bring that character into physical being?</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7_TuYbn-fpZ7t2diIneOl7APIqu8Pl1x5B05kgUvtWGbOJnIBwyNJ0bmkgBkw_qWW9GrmBksxEV1q161iwgPEaa1FIMNK9i_h5YD-4Zvf7IQMD-1YkGB2cdR-xm5uv-Pi3zUgDK3dG8g/s1600/yuko_shimizu_unwritten1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7_TuYbn-fpZ7t2diIneOl7APIqu8Pl1x5B05kgUvtWGbOJnIBwyNJ0bmkgBkw_qWW9GrmBksxEV1q161iwgPEaa1FIMNK9i_h5YD-4Zvf7IQMD-1YkGB2cdR-xm5uv-Pi3zUgDK3dG8g/s1600/yuko_shimizu_unwritten1.jpeg" height="400" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The Unwritten</i>, Cover of Volume One by Yuko Shimizu</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8TRG3SdtCO40V8T5MRdVA5-TXwXe8IS0BJDGelTA2y9bUeXTk4VR8tVXoqiLktdKA_q68mI0muiQW0ESRIVdC5qBR03OkYOEX_gFbPZ5zKLYb9qla6R4O5qzexg1tj4hEgT4REnLREvs/s1600/unw-cv14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8TRG3SdtCO40V8T5MRdVA5-TXwXe8IS0BJDGelTA2y9bUeXTk4VR8tVXoqiLktdKA_q68mI0muiQW0ESRIVdC5qBR03OkYOEX_gFbPZ5zKLYb9qla6R4O5qzexg1tj4hEgT4REnLREvs/s1600/unw-cv14.jpg" height="400" width="262" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cover of <i>The Unwritten</i>, by Yuko Shimizu</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">In </span><span class="s2"><u><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1401225659?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creativeASIN=1401225659&linkCode=xm2&tag=zoeinwonderla-20" target="_blank">The Unwritten</a></u></span><span class="s1">, Tom Taylor is presented to us as the son of the author of a wildly famous series of books (think </span><span class="s2">Harry Potter</span><span class="s1">) who disappeared under mysterious circumstances. The protagonist of the series, Tommy Taylor, is named after him, and Tom himself goes around to conventions to tell adoring fans about his dad and answer questions and sign things--an existence he detests. He is always trying to point out the distinction between himself and the character, but the idea itself falls on deaf ears. At one of these conventions, a young student stands up and questions his identity as the author’s son. Public opinion swings rapidly and violently, the way it is wont to do, and Tom finds himself hiding from a variety of hateful ex-fans. Soon, his identity is re-established, but not in a way he finds pleasing at all, and not the identity he’d been living before--he goes from reviled to worshiped, from demon to messiah, and all of it through no acts of his own. It’s truly as if he is simply a pawn of a storyline his father put him in before he had a chance to have any say about it--in fact, it’s always been that way, for him, but now events are such that he is forced to do something about it. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">What the comic--which is <i>fascinating</i>--begins to explore is the way in which stories shape our society, our ways of thinking, and the very behaviors which we thought were most private and individualistic. The first book introduces a set of characters who shape what stories will be presented to the public by a sinister influence upon the authors. In a way very well-matched to that theme, the comic is wound with stories inside stories, and at one point, Tom’s tale is suspended for a brief foray into history (which soon ties back into his present) via the author and poet Rudyard Kipling. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJpyL4DI-mOYx939PKSRWvfm7EYR2S-3-okS7uSY4SYEJIwOQkBo5_CxPR92EqNxxmFq8PSI9wCnS5DGGeM67U4fWu630e9Hh5IdkLO6GUr8nm_Lhyphenhypheny9EhyphenhyphenrcIicm8JxJx9-NgFqZ0RYQ/s1600/Unwritten-Issue-27-Cover-Mike-Carey-Vertigo-Trinity-Comics-Review.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJpyL4DI-mOYx939PKSRWvfm7EYR2S-3-okS7uSY4SYEJIwOQkBo5_CxPR92EqNxxmFq8PSI9wCnS5DGGeM67U4fWu630e9Hh5IdkLO6GUr8nm_Lhyphenhypheny9EhyphenhyphenrcIicm8JxJx9-NgFqZ0RYQ/s1600/Unwritten-Issue-27-Cover-Mike-Carey-Vertigo-Trinity-Comics-Review.jpg" height="400" width="261" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cover of <i>The Unwritten</i> by Yuko Shimizu</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFsXJEZUeAVOrMIgjsTvVl0iVPhBc7uhUHKUtx-8CbmY9D1qiIfVSfidUFNKPYwnjM4x2R8jfdom-l-H5XLUwjGqcGq5D5XCjTpZFPaxPO38UjloOLcuU2_UmdEA-8VGFhyjfPjKgt9sI/s1600/unwritten_12_final_cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFsXJEZUeAVOrMIgjsTvVl0iVPhBc7uhUHKUtx-8CbmY9D1qiIfVSfidUFNKPYwnjM4x2R8jfdom-l-H5XLUwjGqcGq5D5XCjTpZFPaxPO38UjloOLcuU2_UmdEA-8VGFhyjfPjKgt9sI/s1600/unwritten_12_final_cover.jpg" height="400" width="262" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cover of <i>The Unwritten </i>by Yuko Shimizu</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">His very patriotic poetry, exhorting citizens to give up their youth and lives for empire and the British Way, becomes part of the tale of an author who lost his way and found himself trapped in a terrifying, soul-destroying situation. Crushed, he turns to writing again to find his way out:</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsUSCgydUHUhNTgkAKhd9dV-iaJKhFAUjnamOocqHvhPInHTPPA2GyM5lq6D9n3dojr2LYHHPddtEz5R_qEPuTxWd6O12RckXKOt2VW6RRBKcYYcVt-ky9v8domnKXLmu0uahPNwc8Geo/s1600/EPSON002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsUSCgydUHUhNTgkAKhd9dV-iaJKhFAUjnamOocqHvhPInHTPPA2GyM5lq6D9n3dojr2LYHHPddtEz5R_qEPuTxWd6O12RckXKOt2VW6RRBKcYYcVt-ky9v8domnKXLmu0uahPNwc8Geo/s1600/EPSON002.jpg" height="400" width="246" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pages from <i>The Unwritten</i>, Volume One<br />The artwork on these pages is by Mark Carey and Peter Gross, who are also the authors. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg1WcFtuon8_ddgZiGefCTzUwZ8jTBau0ebE0x16JHNPCvRw0I2LxKSPSYf5kk4hadLL0IecckPLL3NT9jYXvbKnsK58sTT6VdcEwrj_bVt9rCCgCx5FqUuniz4BWfFCyfmf1CS-vFQDY/s1600/EPSON003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg1WcFtuon8_ddgZiGefCTzUwZ8jTBau0ebE0x16JHNPCvRw0I2LxKSPSYf5kk4hadLL0IecckPLL3NT9jYXvbKnsK58sTT6VdcEwrj_bVt9rCCgCx5FqUuniz4BWfFCyfmf1CS-vFQDY/s1600/EPSON003.jpg" height="400" width="247" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pages from <i>The Unwritten</i>, Volume One<br />The artwork on these pages is by Mark Carey and Peter Gross, who are also the authors. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqv5_novb4B9M8PgAOCPiaNdE2byhhhEsA6FW9IFY6jLRA7-MjOj09V2zoLbComSBi0lkV8xSbCmLaCJOOHp-xGApJf-A7Mqde1L5HQgx2sK5su_NzfWmt8X9aob17vL5Q2fh2j863jMw/s1600/EPSON004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqv5_novb4B9M8PgAOCPiaNdE2byhhhEsA6FW9IFY6jLRA7-MjOj09V2zoLbComSBi0lkV8xSbCmLaCJOOHp-xGApJf-A7Mqde1L5HQgx2sK5su_NzfWmt8X9aob17vL5Q2fh2j863jMw/s1600/EPSON004.jpg" height="400" width="253" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pages from <i>The Unwritten</i>, Volume One<br />The artwork on these pages is by Mark Carey and Peter Gross, who are also the authors. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">The whale in this story is the submerged being that tries to amalgamate all stories so that they support </span><span class="s2"><b><a href="http://zoe-in-wonderland.blogspot.com/2014/03/the-crack-in-everything-pried-open-by.html" target="_blank">one ideal</a></b></span><span class="s1">, but it’s impossible, which is why there will always be ways around and through the most hulking and oppressive walls. I find the idea that </span><span class="s2"><b><a href="http://zoe-in-wonderland.blogspot.com/2012/04/santa-caterina-and-her-violetta.html" target="_blank">music and dancing</a></b></span><span class="s1"> would be the method, here, to find a rhythm not-in-step with the overpowering pulse of contemporary society, very attractive.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">The comic is full of fantastically illustrated and developed ideas of the walls of reality and the possible doorways through them...I recommend it whole-heartedly, and am myself waiting impatiently for the arrival of the second book on my doorstep. The good news (or bad, depending on the state of one’s wallet) is that there are at least 8 books of issues already out.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">And one more teaser:</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipE1sH6yPLZ2Rb_-TxATKPxHGSEI-esMJKhCmuTvDlDaX55sQZRTJeLM8EoVnzZZNP5vxy3sz9355XZ5OPhCRMmAy2i8fqW6zAulvIXyRfE4g22-6gF0RA7aVqFIocbCIVFWlVfk4ho4s/s1600/EPSON001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipE1sH6yPLZ2Rb_-TxATKPxHGSEI-esMJKhCmuTvDlDaX55sQZRTJeLM8EoVnzZZNP5vxy3sz9355XZ5OPhCRMmAy2i8fqW6zAulvIXyRfE4g22-6gF0RA7aVqFIocbCIVFWlVfk4ho4s/s1600/EPSON001.jpg" height="400" width="258" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pages from <i>The Unwritten</i>, Volume One<br />The artwork on these pages is by Mark Carey and Peter Gross, who are also the authors. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />zoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16526746200112764467noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3841684678223214738.post-29156479861700601732014-03-01T13:26:00.000-08:002014-03-01T16:23:11.839-08:00The Crack in Everything, Pried Open by Alien Hands<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span style="text-align: center;">“There is a crack, a crack in everything. That’s where the light gets in.”--Leonard Cohen</span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkXMy2011FbJY0eOIUSHHSZtUxEInczh0Tl_3IdOuA3dNCRiM9F1mBIOi62AtGaQVjBTy7HXiOFmdklGX_Z00JaPy_nqWkCm8u-XDWomcoUU3njEfo0ln2Ze5XjE9HP4k3WB-HhpZV8-8/s1600/Harmony.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkXMy2011FbJY0eOIUSHHSZtUxEInczh0Tl_3IdOuA3dNCRiM9F1mBIOi62AtGaQVjBTy7HXiOFmdklGX_Z00JaPy_nqWkCm8u-XDWomcoUU3njEfo0ln2Ze5XjE9HP4k3WB-HhpZV8-8/s1600/Harmony.jpg" height="321" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Harmony</i> by Remedios Varo</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">In Alan J. Friedman’s 2000 essay on Varo’s work, <i>The Serene Science of Remedios Varo</i>, he notes that what looks like magical thinking and mysticism often really reflects hard, leading-edge science, and that many of her paintings in fact seem to represent the moment in which a scientist discovers a new model for the universe, “the defining moment, when the new idea becomes a concrete model, invested with all the precision its creator can muster, yet still filled with mystery and unknown promise.” In the above painting, <i>Harmony</i>, he sees the scientist trying to include all of nature in that model: “Among the objects in this model are natural history specimens and mathematics (one of the slips of paper has the first 5 digits of pi, 3.1415). Science, in the form of a prepared mind, is helped by chance (the figure emerging from the wall).” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUnBxtvQAQg5-XdbteXYyOCAIXxcQjjPZ-TUGcsjyVZKBPz_Dv7U5Iyb9oLxJyiDceVsi-gzwquVQ-KDDa90aqZkQaIZb34dY5dG3HO63KN0VQ_qNac5tougDEW0Iu4JJGwupqmFT6lQE/s1600/detailofharmony.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUnBxtvQAQg5-XdbteXYyOCAIXxcQjjPZ-TUGcsjyVZKBPz_Dv7U5Iyb9oLxJyiDceVsi-gzwquVQ-KDDa90aqZkQaIZb34dY5dG3HO63KN0VQ_qNac5tougDEW0Iu4JJGwupqmFT6lQE/s1600/detailofharmony.jpg" height="400" width="375" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Detail of <i>Harmony </i> by Remedios Varo</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">
</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Each of us already has a theory of existence, which all five senses base their decisions (notice? don’t notice?) on; that theory exists as the limits to each person’s perspective. In this painting, the figure looks at the symbols and their relations, trying to discover the form of the subconscious cage the world is--to him--limited by, the cage outlining his current life, trying to recognize it and trying to find a crack--like the one the blue figure comes out of here--through which he can slip to a new model, in a moment much like this:</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit8DpaHBDaoQEZb_wgz3WdtUOubzFghFZkzCAMnwNq7hNBYXyW_OMdmK5_LkXBo-X-d1dPpNivzI4mUbz1uRxSUqHeOT4_3JVAYO226gYoxNu7BDkACNQ0Keo9wMHhV-1OZSih7imPc3Y/s1600/varoweightlessness.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit8DpaHBDaoQEZb_wgz3WdtUOubzFghFZkzCAMnwNq7hNBYXyW_OMdmK5_LkXBo-X-d1dPpNivzI4mUbz1uRxSUqHeOT4_3JVAYO226gYoxNu7BDkACNQ0Keo9wMHhV-1OZSih7imPc3Y/s1600/varoweightlessness.jpg" height="640" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The Phenomenon of Weightlessness</i> by Remedios Varo</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Friedman says: “In <i>Phenomenon of Weightlessness</i> (1963), a scientist is astonished as his model of the earth and moon breaks away from the stand on which it rested (seen on the floor), and floats in space on its own. Physicists immediately recognize this painting as depicting Einstein’s physics, which modified the concepts of absolute space and absolute time that Newton had built into his model of how objects behave in space and time under the influence of gravity.”</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Friedman notes that of course we are always seeking out new models, because no model is ever complete. In every scientific model, in every life, there are things that do not fit. </span><span class="s2"><u>That’s the crack</u></span><span class="s1"> Leonard Cohen sings about. Pick at it, play with it. Change the universe.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdM-nArOpJpNZXfxh1W4mInEBIxijEltM5-WNq8Z6XsqxhBKQN6BCobifstOqfX_EgFFm2Ar1WGpKaRd7_tXtxeGW1HaAkc-ESYiXLHm8FxKNCUuSzDEm3gxgAw8f350Sherb6HTYoSiU/s1600/revelationoftheclockmaker1333839031628.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdM-nArOpJpNZXfxh1W4mInEBIxijEltM5-WNq8Z6XsqxhBKQN6BCobifstOqfX_EgFFm2Ar1WGpKaRd7_tXtxeGW1HaAkc-ESYiXLHm8FxKNCUuSzDEm3gxgAw8f350Sherb6HTYoSiU/s1600/revelationoftheclockmaker1333839031628.png" height="336" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Revelation of the Clockmaker,</i> by Remedios Varo</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
In <u><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0307389928?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creativeASIN=0307389928&linkCode=xm2&tag=zoeinwonderla-20" target="_blank">Incognito</a></u>, David Eagleman explains how little the conscious mind is involved in decision-making and lifestyle by exploring the myriad “zombie systems” that compete for position in your subconscious without your awareness. To illustrate, he talks about having a secret, noting that if you have no desire to tell anyone, the story’s just boring, and if you have no problem telling everyone, it’s just juicy, but if you’re conflicted, that’s because you are of (in this case) two minds, much like the two minds that argue about whether to have the cheesecake or stay on the diet, or how much fun it will really be to do those push-ups or read that horrific slog of a textbook which appears to have a lot of important knowledge but is awfully poorly-written. In the example he gives of a trauma, like rape, studies show that not talking about the event has significant long-term health effects both physical and psychological; there is something in you that very much needs to talk about it. There is also something in you which does not want to suffer the possible social (or other) consequences:</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
“Brains are like representative democracies. They are built of multiple, overlapping experts who weigh in and compete over different choices. As Walt Whitman correctly surmised, we are large and we harbor multitudes within us. And those multitudes are locked in chronic battle.” (107)</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
There’s the you that focuses on emotional reasoning, there’s the logical side, there’s the lazy side, there’s the side that only looks to the future and the one aching for the past, and at various times one or the other wins out. One of the best and most fascinating examples he gives to show how much conflict is going on “beneath the hood” that you have no idea even exists is that of alien hand syndrome:</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
“As preposterous as this plotline may seem, there is, in fact, a disorder called alien hand syndrome. While it’s not as dramatic as the Evil Dead version, the idea is roughly the same. In alien hand syndrome, which can result from the split-brain surgeries we discussed a few pages ago, the two hands express conflicting desires. A patient’s “alien” hand might pick up a cookie to put it in his mouth, while the normally behaving hand will grab it at the wrist to stop it. A struggle ensues. Or one hand will pick up a newspaper, and the other will slap it back down. Or one hand will zip up a jacket, and the other will unzip it. Some patients with alien hand syndrome have found that yelling “Stop!” will cause the other hemisphere (and the alien hand) to back down. But besides that little modicum of control, the hand is running on its own inaccessible programs, and that is why it’s branded as alien—because the conscious part of the patient seems to have no predictive power over it...</div>
<div class="p1">
[...]</div>
<div class="p1">
What does alien hand syndrome tell us? It unmasks the fact that we harbor mechanical, “alien” subroutines to which we have no access and of which we have no acquaintance. Almost all of our actions—from producing speech to picking up a mug of coffee—are run by alien subroutines, also known as zombie systems. (I use these terms interchangeably: zombie emphasizes the lack of conscious access, while alien emphasizes the foreignness of the programs.) Some alien subroutines are instinctual, while some are learned; all of the highly automated algorithms that we saw in Chapter 3 (serving the tennis ball, sexing the chicks) become inaccessible zombie programs when they are burned down into the circuitry. When a professional baseball player connects his bat with a pitch that is traveling too fast for his conscious mind to track, he is leveraging a well-honed alien subroutine. Alien hand syndrome also tells us that under normal circumstances, all the automated programs are tightly controlled such that only one behavioral output can happen at a time. The alien hand highlights the normally seamless way in which the brain keeps a lid on its internal conflicts. It requires only a little structural damage to uncover what is happening beneath.” (132)</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p1">
Once he has solidly illustrated just how complicated and multiple our person is, he turns to robots and Artificial Intelligence, and this is where I come back to the paintings of Remedios Varo and those cracks in the universe that allow the light of another, wholly-formed and wildly different universe to get in.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaedT1eZasA9Hmw7WIrVJelnsfH-e09T5ClTH2NRNnUD9yGpY_pEYu4qQ4E7YDY4OxwQBQUfSpJ4OT7LmjOLYDm-ZgI6RhTFW6BAYX_pd9T-3Cr0blNdv1Z0u05EMVyd85YUXdTCfhmaM/s1600/Au-bonheur-des-dames-Remedios-Varo-1956_large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaedT1eZasA9Hmw7WIrVJelnsfH-e09T5ClTH2NRNnUD9yGpY_pEYu4qQ4E7YDY4OxwQBQUfSpJ4OT7LmjOLYDm-ZgI6RhTFW6BAYX_pd9T-3Cr0blNdv1Z0u05EMVyd85YUXdTCfhmaM/s1600/Au-bonheur-des-dames-Remedios-Varo-1956_large.jpg" height="400" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Au Bonheur des Dames,</i> by Remedios Varo... little <a href="http://zoe-in-wonderland.blogspot.com/2011/09/five-keys.html" target="_blank">automated creatures</a> heading to the store for more parts....</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Eagleman tells us that robots have been stuck at a certain stage for a long time in terms of how human-like their thinking can become, and he posits (convincingly) that the reason for this lies in that seething community of disagreeing and developing personalities that aren’t even noticed by your conscious self, and their lack of existence within the robot’s “mind.” He notes that when programmers set up a robot, they look for and try to implement the <i>best process</i> to the <i>best solution</i> for whatever problems or situations face the robot. And that’s the <i>one</i> process and solution they put in (as a subagent) for the robot to “turn on” when the situation arises. But:</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“If a space alien landed on Earth and discovered an animal that could climb a tree (say, a monkey), it would be rash for the alien to conclude that the monkey is the only animal with these skills. If the alien keeps looking, it will quickly discover that ants, squirrels, and jaguars also climb trees. And this is how it goes with clever mechanisms in biology: when we keep looking, we find more. Biology never checks off a problem and calls it quits. It reinvents solutions continually. The end product of that approach is a highly overlapping system of solutions...” (127)</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">And, later:</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“If we hope to invent robots that think, our challenge is not simply to devise a subagent to cleverly solve each problem but instead to ceaselessly reinvent subagents, each with overlapping solutions, and then to pit them against one another.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">[...]</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Probably the best way to cultivate a team is with an evolutionary approach, randomly generating little programs and allowing them to reproduce with small mutations. This strategy allows us to continuously discover solutions rather than trying to think up a single perfect solution from scratch. As the biologist Leslie Orgel’s second law states: 'Evolution is smarter than you are.' If I had a law of biology, it would be: 'Evolve solutions; when you find a good one, don’t stop.' (p. 148). </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">That is, whatever your model of the universe is, keeping picking at the cracks in it.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">This is also what an artist does, with play. Backing away from what one already knows and trying <a href="http://clivehicksjenkins.wordpress.com/2014/01/16/once-the-maquettes-are-made/" target="_blank">something</a> <a href="http://clivehicksjenkins.wordpress.com/2013/11/26/20859/" target="_blank">new</a> to address the same situation (eg how to translate an idea into an image) brings more of these differing subconscious opinions to the conscious surface for assessment. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">
</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Pretend I have drawn a pattern down on paper, and I say to you, "this is the universe.” That’s basically what a person does: we <i>expect </i>politicians to act that way, we <i>expect</i> our doctor to say one thing and not the other, we <i>wait</i> for that response from the in-laws, etc. But say I see something only slightly odd or out of place as I’m walking down the street and instead of ignoring it, I focus all of my attention on it. That focus on something outside my usual experience creates a new pathway in my brain which sprouts bazillions of other tangential connections, effectively changing me and also the universe that I live in because connections beget connections and eventually that odd thing is part of the structure--fundamental, even, to the pattern I am calling the universe. Yes it was already “there,” in that I was able to glimpse it (barely) but <i>every</i> thing and <i>every</i> time is already there; the issue is bringing it to the level of perception which makes it part of the consensual universe, making it structural. </span></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">
</span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b><span class="s1">“Perhaps, contrary to Plato’s allegory of the cave, we sometimes only see the real once we have seen its shadow in art.” Henderson, Caspar; </span><span class="s2"><u><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/022604470X?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creativeASIN=022604470X&linkCode=xm2&tag=zoeinwonderla-20" target="_blank">The Book of Barely Imagined Beings: A 21st Century Bestiar</a></u></span><span class="s1"><u><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/022604470X?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creativeASIN=022604470X&linkCode=xm2&tag=zoeinwonderla-20" target="_blank">y</a></u>. </span></b></blockquote>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
Remedios Varo had fled the Fascist government of Spain to France after the assassination of the poet Federico Garcia Lorca, but as the Nazis began their move into France, deportation became a strong possibility, meaning a forced return to Franco’s regime, where she was already a target. By February 1940, her lover, Péret, had been arrested, having refused to enlist; soon after that she discovered that her first husband was also interred in a camp, and she moved heaven and earth and called on every friend and favor she could to get him out, finally successfully. Both Lizarraga (her first husband) and Péret called upon images of her to help them through their imprisonment and recalled how even the sense of her spirit strengthened them. Soon, however, she found herself arrested by the Nazis in France, an experience she refused to talk about after the several weeks it took her to recuperate in a friend’s apartment. All this is to say that she experienced first-hand the life-altering terror of a violent state which insists that its voice is the only true voice, that its plans are the only correct plans, that its future is the only possible future, and she survived not to rail against it but to create its alternative, to strengthen many other possible voices, plans and futures through her particular magic.</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
It took immense effort to get the financing and the false passports and safe passage for her escape from France, endeavors that were undertaken by heroic groups of underground operators, in this case, a group working with <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/031220356X?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creativeASIN=031220356X&linkCode=xm2&tag=zoeinwonderla-20" target="_blank">Varian Fry</a> whose efforts on her behalf took six months of work; there are a few descriptions from that time period that I think are significant in tying her experience and the ideas of continual evolution explored in <u><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0307389928?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creativeASIN=0307389928&linkCode=xm2&tag=zoeinwonderla-20" target="_blank">Incognito</a></u> together with this “crack in everything.” The French government made an agreement (Article 19 of the Franco-German armistice) to “surrender on demand” any person with religious views, anti-fascist views, or any other view the Third Reich disapproved of to the Nazis. As the Nazis raised the swastika atop the Eiffel Tower, Varo gave up on her attempts to find and save Péret and joined millions in a mass-flight from Paris to the south:</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"></span></div>
<div class="p1">
“It was a June remembered as among the loveliest in years, bright, sunny, cloudless, and not too warm, as Varo became one of the horde of more than eight million refugees: ‘men, women and children [who] took off in utter panic toward the unoccupied zone in the south, packing a few belongings on the roofs of their small cars or on the racks of motorcycles or bicycles or in baby carts, peddlers’ carts, wheelbarrows, or in any wheeled contrivance they could lay a hasty hand on, for many were on foot.” (72, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0896597970?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creativeASIN=0896597970&linkCode=xm2&tag=zoeinwonderla-20" target="_blank">Kaplan</a>)</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsEs1kDHtM-77iSWdxcToZen6RtVzqnAwt1ewRmoVsbZWc1YWPgW7zUqJDhl1dfragrOmjznXUhyphenhyphen1r6CX7_CSkKmpuva_eqZuDvtuSkX43KDr2ZWBhiVNIHcgRcHiNQUhlR4_o4zM5AVw/s1600/twisted+roads.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsEs1kDHtM-77iSWdxcToZen6RtVzqnAwt1ewRmoVsbZWc1YWPgW7zUqJDhl1dfragrOmjznXUhyphenhyphen1r6CX7_CSkKmpuva_eqZuDvtuSkX43KDr2ZWBhiVNIHcgRcHiNQUhlR4_o4zM5AVw/s1600/twisted+roads.jpg" height="400" width="237" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Twisted Roads,</i> by Remedios Varo</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgn0DYoOUFa-C96qslQ5VYN_k6f4Qefio0Fe5g5wmIz5YWV_u3ixskjjbb14EzA5SuHKcbbyd1tYKQZXxNbqMNL-N5xHn1pJs2P5SV_tJlhZoEz9ieVbBnwDwUKLfy3JattyVxilBWIC4/s1600/hairy+locomotion.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgn0DYoOUFa-C96qslQ5VYN_k6f4Qefio0Fe5g5wmIz5YWV_u3ixskjjbb14EzA5SuHKcbbyd1tYKQZXxNbqMNL-N5xHn1pJs2P5SV_tJlhZoEz9ieVbBnwDwUKLfy3JattyVxilBWIC4/s1600/hairy+locomotion.jpeg" height="400" width="283" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Hairy Locomotion</i>, by Remedios Varo</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Her friend Oscar Dominguez managed to find her a spot in a car, sparing her the walk, and the experience of that ride offers the first of the significant things I believe she took with her, planting it deep inside her later paintings:</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“Friends remember hearing that Varo traveled ‘in the car of some eccentric Americans who loaded their little car with fossils instead of provisions; in spite of the bombers and black smoke that weighed over the city and its outskirts, they stopped in front of each cathedral to admire it and were touched at encountering, almost unreal, an almond tree in flower.’” (72)</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">She had barely escaped from her own imprisonment; her lover’s fate was uncertain, though certainly dark; bombs were raining down occasionally upon the easy target of this mass exodus, yet these people, who were sparing Varo a painfully difficult foot-journey, took the time to stop and wonder at a flowering almond tree. In the midst of the traumas and struggles of her life and the lives of those around her, Varo sat down at her easel and created moments of flowering magic: little almond trees growing out of the hard rock of fear and suffering.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Varo made it to Marseille, which became an underground port for intellectuals and artists attempting to flee the country, and where <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/031220356X?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creativeASIN=031220356X&linkCode=xm2&tag=zoeinwonderla-20" target="_blank">Varian Fry</a> had set up his committee, working wherever he could--even, for a period, from a hotel bathroom--to gather information, proper documents, false documents, financing, knowledge of as-yet undiscovered pathways--whatever was necessary to get as many people as possible away from the Nazis’ targeted wrath. There was a great attempt like this, focused specifically on artists and intellectuals, because those were the people who offered dreams and visions of ‘other ways,’ doorways through the thick stone walls of Fascist mind-fortresses, playfulness in the midst of their very serious endeavors. The Nazis understood this without question, and they made an equally vigorous effort to kill the very people Fry and others were struggling to save.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">At one point in the months leading up to Varo’s escape, a collection of Surrealists were staying in secret at an abandoned villa, Villa Air-Bel; Péret had also managed to make it to Marseille, and the two of them stayed close-by the Villa, joining its inhabitants by day. They focused on surrealist games in every break from their struggle to raise food-money, and at one point, Varo discovered that a Republican refugee friend of theirs had a toreador outfit with him, and she and Jacque Hérold and Péret each took turns trying it on and posing in a photo shop along the dock. That is the second moment that I believe she carried with her to her easel each time.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHwN7_apVz-yn0VXjGHI50pUCgq6FKNgGPOBUmikeCIOwL2QADVpQF_LfJiH3y6WK5Bb4bI8GYwLdvF3054Z-WojoEPvb7mfgIKUzTTQbxdfnpZJq8nxe85RTqAQlW6w2r9vTBiWN-63c/s1600/rv-as-torera.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHwN7_apVz-yn0VXjGHI50pUCgq6FKNgGPOBUmikeCIOwL2QADVpQF_LfJiH3y6WK5Bb4bI8GYwLdvF3054Z-WojoEPvb7mfgIKUzTTQbxdfnpZJq8nxe85RTqAQlW6w2r9vTBiWN-63c/s1600/rv-as-torera.jpg" height="400" width="287" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Remedios Varo kept this photo with her all her life</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“It was such games, played with a vengeance during the many months in Marseilles, that kept them going. As Breton remarked, ‘So great is this power of defiance, of scorn and also of hope...that the actors in this scene had perhaps never found themselves so childlike, never sang, played or laughed so whole-heartedly.’” (Kaplan, 79)</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">As they were waiting to give their money (an eventual gift from Peggy Guggenheim) to an intermediary who would pass it on to a black-market operator who would then take them by fishing boat to Casablanca, where they had already secured passage on a Portuguese liner, Varo and Péret stumbled into a young man who offered them a seemingly more secure journey. They gave him their money, and he disappeared. But <i>this</i> story Varo would talk about, for its bizarre twist of luck:</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“Although he left them stranded, running off with their precious cash, the thief may have saved their lives. For, as the newspapers soon would report, the black-market operator to whom the money was to have been delivered turned out to be a psychopathic killer who had murdered the previous refugees he had offered to help-- a charge verified by the mute testimony of twelve bodies found buried in his backyard.” (<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0896597970?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creativeASIN=0896597970&linkCode=xm2&tag=zoeinwonderla-20" target="_blank">Kaplan</a>, 72)</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Varo never spoke of her interment, as far as I have been able to find. She did not seem to focus on the fear and bizarre violence that we <i>do</i> see reflected in other surrealist works of this time. She did not go on to march and protest against fascists and publish articles expressing her--justified--rage. Instead, she went on, with that contrasting flowering almond and the sense of play in the face of terror, and she <i>picked </i>at the cracks, there in the seemingly solid foundations of our often terrifying world, and widened them into a series of mysterious and beautiful jewels of paintings, in which she catches characters suddenly waking from their zombie-subroutine-led existence and making the choice to look in a different direction, at something (somewhere) else:</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJtOIaLEE3N2TtysBqC1cWlY95ySx29ccyyo-JHxzntYncZ54zq4kaCflHfUy3YEGdfvOdBjvtPu1_BCCV9IpryiaTlaEXHPtCTXkqFVbr1me2T928X7rB8d5gFsrUZQ8PVfcX6Hkc-18/s1600/varo1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJtOIaLEE3N2TtysBqC1cWlY95ySx29ccyyo-JHxzntYncZ54zq4kaCflHfUy3YEGdfvOdBjvtPu1_BCCV9IpryiaTlaEXHPtCTXkqFVbr1me2T928X7rB8d5gFsrUZQ8PVfcX6Hkc-18/s1600/varo1.jpg" height="400" width="322" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Note the girl whose eyes are <i>not</i> following those of the others.... (Painting by Remedios Varo)</span></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixoE9IL7ztVI1_ErIKPUkzI9uZO0gtWHhJ8riwvu7C9sI3JE0gpu-SNFnJ2ucQFEADiamzlg3mHdEzDnqRdRFJNbJeEhd6kM3GPeWzFUPROfLFaf50Zuac-KvY6wqB_cuZ5NIXfPWbk2Y/s1600/varorupture.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixoE9IL7ztVI1_ErIKPUkzI9uZO0gtWHhJ8riwvu7C9sI3JE0gpu-SNFnJ2ucQFEADiamzlg3mHdEzDnqRdRFJNbJeEhd6kM3GPeWzFUPROfLFaf50Zuac-KvY6wqB_cuZ5NIXfPWbk2Y/s1600/varorupture.jpg" height="400" width="272" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Rupture</i>, by Remedios Varo</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLxIyEQZnUy4k-RTG5mraXfYIWpJ0xE1CyKrR4a98ry3DG5wX4eylcpDN96d_6kZX7X8VJABga0jwCygNC7rWnrG7rkF37RI1DuJmuI2puD5i5DzrcqU2FbGkAT3hs1YsAVNzHhqz7euk/s1600/the-call.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLxIyEQZnUy4k-RTG5mraXfYIWpJ0xE1CyKrR4a98ry3DG5wX4eylcpDN96d_6kZX7X8VJABga0jwCygNC7rWnrG7rkF37RI1DuJmuI2puD5i5DzrcqU2FbGkAT3hs1YsAVNzHhqz7euk/s1600/the-call.jpg" height="400" width="275" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The Call,</i> by Remedios Varo</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
She created life in those cracks, and even now, here, where Hitler’s terror can’t reach me, Varo’s magic does. I study her art and it changes my life, all these years after her death.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinvCJHP6Drc-SU_S4vvCz_GXmAiPRFGfdFSszWiy5IT5-1DXFY5NlMOpImyWUSGs0_cfLhp4VaBN_l-WimVC6n1ItHGhO-0dTTo_PnkbaNM8V6caXUNvesp6-80sOMT5YSNdBMk5av3E4/s1600/03-nunsweaving.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinvCJHP6Drc-SU_S4vvCz_GXmAiPRFGfdFSszWiy5IT5-1DXFY5NlMOpImyWUSGs0_cfLhp4VaBN_l-WimVC6n1ItHGhO-0dTTo_PnkbaNM8V6caXUNvesp6-80sOMT5YSNdBMk5av3E4/s1600/03-nunsweaving.jpg" height="312" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Embroidering the Earth’s Mantel</i>, by Remedios Varo: Note that the woman closest to us on the left is pushing a secret through that little crack where her embroidery comes out....</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV2OddEoMHdrVN7LGO-YuyMYMHsZ41UttkRFp8xHPbQaJq6LF3F1W7QvQHDh05LnlJSz_bSbw4L1BT7Sd1oz8SIAL8tips7iOb406IsZKfbeBP7ckPpjgVDDQhVS-ZUqesR6xQ7W9HAaI/s1600/rvaro+detail.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV2OddEoMHdrVN7LGO-YuyMYMHsZ41UttkRFp8xHPbQaJq6LF3F1W7QvQHDh05LnlJSz_bSbw4L1BT7Sd1oz8SIAL8tips7iOb406IsZKfbeBP7ckPpjgVDDQhVS-ZUqesR6xQ7W9HAaI/s1600/rvaro+detail.JPG" height="640" width="348" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Detail from <i>Embroidering the Earth's Mantel</i>, by Remedios Varo: The lovers escaping through the crack</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiUuCJBQyo7KaDW2FJuvHNPV2VQp1S_UCCl-9z0vX1S0OllsbZbdHBKzE2vrehQI7p0Otj3M-gZQH9AaR56BdhVQadSJU7JUNcNx6h2aajwLhcSy3B_fVhgSezo5yPsqJW98TsntM1QWk/s1600/45-detalleBordando.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiUuCJBQyo7KaDW2FJuvHNPV2VQp1S_UCCl-9z0vX1S0OllsbZbdHBKzE2vrehQI7p0Otj3M-gZQH9AaR56BdhVQadSJU7JUNcNx6h2aajwLhcSy3B_fVhgSezo5yPsqJW98TsntM1QWk/s1600/45-detalleBordando.jpg" height="400" width="376" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Detail of <i>Embroidering the Earth's Mantel </i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
zoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16526746200112764467noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3841684678223214738.post-21591615298664584922014-02-09T09:13:00.000-08:002014-02-13T17:14:28.416-08:00Montaigne, Your Life and The End of the World<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy7G2JTrp-JGZ7dcsJjZ8sa7t2t1QDFQhcEe4QVofplJRQkSlSw4ouvfXRb2XSdimkKvGjWW7-UL93RjyBc5_TVyHg6NOHfCcLUEHr1QhIcNX0CSR-zjtDtingGkFIKbzazp4cbJkGf7A/s1600/gormenghast_castle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy7G2JTrp-JGZ7dcsJjZ8sa7t2t1QDFQhcEe4QVofplJRQkSlSw4ouvfXRb2XSdimkKvGjWW7-UL93RjyBc5_TVyHg6NOHfCcLUEHr1QhIcNX0CSR-zjtDtingGkFIKbzazp4cbJkGf7A/s1600/gormenghast_castle.jpg" height="400" width="312" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Gormenghast Castle</i>, by Su Blackwell</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>All Images in this post by Su Blackwell</i>.<br />
<br />
As a younger man, in his twenties and thirties, Montaigne was gripped by a terror of death and a semi-constant absorption with its lurking shadows, threats and assaults. All of his favorite philosophers seemed to suggest that the more one imagined one’s own death, the better prepared one would be to have a “good” death, which meant a brave countenance and several manly, well-timed speeches; but the more he thought about death, the more he brooded, the less lively and alive he was. On top of this philosophical difficulty was the disastrous events of his early thirties, in which his best friend was killed by the plague, his father passed, his perfectly healthy younger brother was killed by a minor blow to the head in a sporting match, and his first child died at two months of age. Death was everywhere, and thinking about it philosophically brought him no peace.<br />
<br />
What did finally bring him peace was his own brush with death, when one of his own men accidentally knocked him off of his horse. Sarah Bakewell describes the incident in her book, <u><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1590514831?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creativeASIN=1590514831&linkCode=xm2&tag=zoeinwonderla-20" target="_blank">How to Live: Or a Life of Montaigne in One Question and Twenty Attempts at an Answer</a></u>:<br />
<br />
“During what followed, as witnesses later told him, Montaigne thrashed about. He ripped at his doublet with his nails, as if to rid himself of a weight. ‘My stomach was oppressed with the clotted blood; my hands flew to it of their own accord, as they often do where we itch, against the intention of our will.’ It looked as if he were trying to rip his own body apart, or perhaps to pull it away from him so his spirit could depart. All this time, however, his inward feelings were tranquil.<br />
[...]<br />
The servants continued to carry him towards the house, in this state of inward languor and outward agitation. His family noticed the commotion and ran out to him—’with the outcries customary in such cases,’ as he later put it. They asked what had happened. Montaigne was able to give answers, but not coherent ones. He saw his wife picking her way awkwardly over the uneven path and considered telling his men to give her a horse to ride. You would think that all this must have come from ‘a wide-awake soul,’ he wrote. Yet, ‘the fact is that I was not there at all.’ He had traveled far away. ‘These were idle thoughts, in the clouds, set in motion by the sensations of the eyes and ears; they did not come from within me’—chez moi, a term usually meaning ‘at home.’ All his actions and words were somehow produced by the body alone. ‘What the soul contributed was in a dream, touched very lightly, and merely licked and sprinkled, as it were, by the soft impression of the senses.’ Montaigne and life, it seemed, were about to part company with neither regret nor formal farewells, like two drunken guests leaving a feast too dazed to say goodbye.”<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixR6WO43LGyx8QCR_XushSYcY1FFdTfA-75WUYlGBiN0U2Ws5fqRGL68G8lJEXjHimZC1JgoPHo-LK4mScNwFBzueoqWguPWlZHrW5ImVDimzfYuNuQ72sTqEF6C48Mcj2hsK2OxZfIjM/s1600/gormenghast_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixR6WO43LGyx8QCR_XushSYcY1FFdTfA-75WUYlGBiN0U2Ws5fqRGL68G8lJEXjHimZC1JgoPHo-LK4mScNwFBzueoqWguPWlZHrW5ImVDimzfYuNuQ72sTqEF6C48Mcj2hsK2OxZfIjM/s1600/gormenghast_1.jpg" height="400" width="322" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gormenghast Castle Detail</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
“His return to life was as violent as the accident: all jostlings, impacts, flashes, and thunderclaps. Life thrust itself deeply into him, whereas death had been a light and superficial thing. From now on, he tried to import some of death’s delicacy and buoyancy into life. ‘Bad spots’ were everywhere, he wrote in a late essay. We do better to ‘slide over this world a bit lightly and on the surface.’ Through this discovery of gliding and drifting, he lost much of his fear, and at the same time acquired a new sense that life, as it passed through his body—his particular life, Michel de Montaigne’s—was a very interesting subject for investigation. He would go on to attend to sensations and experiences, not for what they were supposed to be, or for what philosophical lessons they might impart, but for the way they actually felt. He would go with the flow.”<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNprvwipPHFkcVmdlIiI9TueTR3XI0arUALwaEHWR2YawzamHAwUvlO1eksx5uCAX25ootM3SS6Khz_NQC113UOwt82ETQ_nSpM9gol5__QdobQ4XKIzmAmPQfpvH5ztNGwyZ_AGImALk/s1600/raven-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNprvwipPHFkcVmdlIiI9TueTR3XI0arUALwaEHWR2YawzamHAwUvlO1eksx5uCAX25ootM3SS6Khz_NQC113UOwt82ETQ_nSpM9gol5__QdobQ4XKIzmAmPQfpvH5ztNGwyZ_AGImALk/s1600/raven-1.jpg" height="296" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Raven, by Su Blackwell</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
It’s an important detail, that comment about making yourself a subject for investigation. If all possibilities are happening at once, by living your life you are choosing one to investigate, to experience, to immerse yourself in, the same way that some part of you chooses a dream to immerse yourself in, whether that dream is a path through an impossibly lush landscape full of intensely magical fauna or a horrifying race through twisting, dark forests with monsters on your trail. Some part of you has chosen, and I believe that that part of you is Habit. There you are: head down, pencil clenched in your hand, berating yourself silently for having managed to somehow miss the majority of the semester’s classes and then forgetting to study, while your whole future depends on this exam you’re about to fail. You can’t even keep the options straight on the paper. What is this nightmare about? It’s a habitual way of thinking, of responding to the world, of translating the events in front of you: you’re never prepared, you can’t keep things straight, you don’t understand your options, etc. To look up from that test and think: this is a dream, I don’t have to feel like this--that would be a simple thing. But you don’t. Why? Because you believe. You readily accept that you do have to. And here’s the suggestion I’m making: at any time, when something is happening that’s unpleasant, or even just mildly annoying, look down at your hands. Mess with some talisman that you’ve chosen to carry, feel its weight, recall where you got it and why. This will take your focus off of the unpleasant thing, the annoying circumstances, the fight that all the boiling blood in your body is furiously prepared and eager to be a part of (but which I can bet you will regret later), and put it on something else. This permits you a moment of distance, which can result in several things, two of which I’ll mention here: one, if you’re dreaming, taking your focus off of the event often allows for a total change of venue. You look away, and the set changes, that’s how these things work. Two, if you’re not dreaming (but are you *sure*?), it gives you the opportunity, as I mentioned, for a moment of distance, which can allow for a change in perspective. Recall, in Mastermind, the fly-on-the-wall trick, which suggests that you relive an argument or regretted moment as if you were not one of the people involved but rather a fly on the wall:<br />
<br />
“It’s a process of picturing something vividly but from a distance, and so, from a perspective that is inherently different from the actual one you have stored in your memory. From scenario one to scenario two, you have gone from a concrete to an abstract mindset; you’ve likely become calmer emotionally, seen things that you missed the first time around, and you may have even come away with a slightly modified memory of what happened. In fact, you may have even become wiser and better at solving problems overall, unrelated to the scenario in question. (And you will have also been practicing a form of meditation. Sneaky, isn’t it?)” <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/014312434X?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creativeASIN=014312434X&linkCode=xm2&tag=zoeinwonderla-20" target="_blank">Konnikova, Maria (2013-01-03). Mastermind: How to Think Like Sherlock Holmes </a>(p. 148).<br />
<br />
This is something like what happened with Montaigne. He had a very close brush with death, and experienced that distance via the time it took his body to decide whether it was staying or going. In that distance, he both lost his overwhelming fear of death and came to appreciate the fact that he could, from such a distanced vantage point, study all his own emotions and internal experiences. Thus the essay was born: Montaigne was the first person to study human thought and feeling in this way, and he was exceptional at it. He began a life-long study of what it was to live as a human, and how to do so well. Sarah Bakewell’s book pulls together some of his ideas, along with information about his time period and other biographical details, as a sort of guidebook through his massive tomes of essays. The first two chapters stood out to me as being astonishingly well-matched companions to the first two installments of the <u><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1594746745?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creativeASIN=1594746745&linkCode=xm2&tag=zoeinwonderla-20" target="_blank">Last Policeman</a></u> Trilogy by <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1594746265?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creativeASIN=1594746265&linkCode=xm2&tag=zoeinwonderla-20" target="_blank">Ben H. Winters</a> (the third is to come out this summer), which I’ll come to in a moment.<br />
<br />
What Montaigne expresses, in his description of his brush with death, is much like what one experiences in a moment of lucid dreaming: you relinquish your grip on whatever habit is holding you to the action, and are filled with such a sense of relief, it’s much like floating.<br />
It's a un-focusing of attention on certain things, and that is sometimes most easily-managed by the next title in the Montaigne book-- by paying attention to something else, to its every detail. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgesj6Pa_u-OviZ5m2CBK3XKey4HjPmyiXV1CzOyzK0pJI9mW9e9isHzRvLXwPRGdTUze883JLI13K7ZghXZJ7EC7y5MsNYuVOCzBefgoio9oUr4G2bkdhxNmGHEhB6tvt_HsfTNlOdDmQ/s1600/wildflowers+of+the+british+isles+detail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgesj6Pa_u-OviZ5m2CBK3XKey4HjPmyiXV1CzOyzK0pJI9mW9e9isHzRvLXwPRGdTUze883JLI13K7ZghXZJ7EC7y5MsNYuVOCzBefgoio9oUr4G2bkdhxNmGHEhB6tvt_HsfTNlOdDmQ/s1600/wildflowers+of+the+british+isles+detail.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Detail: Wildflowers of the British Isles, by Su Blackwell</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
His mode of focus was writing:<br />
<br />
“The trick is to maintain a kind of naive amazement at each instant of experience—but, as Montaigne learned, one of the best techniques for doing this is to write about everything. Simply describing an object on your table, or the view from your window, opens your eyes to how marvelous such ordinary things are. To look inside yourself is to open up an even more fantastical realm. The philosopher Maurice Merleau-Ponty called Montaigne a writer who put ‘a consciousness astonished at itself at the core of human existence.’ More recently, the critic Colin Burrow has remarked that astonishment, together with Montaigne’s other key quality, fluidity, are what philosophy should be, but rarely has been, in the Western tradition.”<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAqjYpFBYMz_RfSP_lpMUgV6Fj95Wi1w-GFwf6TGLtvec20dijmsHTBoG4V6NZghKyZyvhk4UGviyo18Sx1WZHEkSOzu0d6zF4gJRw8fWBiofXe_Cwlinhr45wMwpxYbKKTCbL0dpkdGo/s1600/2011_baron_in_the_trees.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAqjYpFBYMz_RfSP_lpMUgV6Fj95Wi1w-GFwf6TGLtvec20dijmsHTBoG4V6NZghKyZyvhk4UGviyo18Sx1WZHEkSOzu0d6zF4gJRw8fWBiofXe_Cwlinhr45wMwpxYbKKTCbL0dpkdGo/s1600/2011_baron_in_the_trees.jpg" height="251" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Baron in the Trees, by Su Blackwell</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
In <u>The Last Policeman</u>, Henry Palace, along with everyone else on the planet, has just been given the date of his death. In a matter of months, a 6.5-kilometer-wide comet, known generally as Maia, has a 100% chance of colliding with Earth, thus destroying a large portion on impact and setting in motion the slow death of everything that survives that first bit. Because so many people decide to kill themselves (in Concord, where he lives, the method of choice is hanging) or “go Bucket-list,” there are a lot of openings among the detectives’ ranks, and Henry gets a promotion to his dream-job surprisingly early in his career. In the background, the selfish aspects of society go about responding the way you’d expect, dismissing promises, abandoning loved ones, walking away from their jobs and heading for the beach or trying out heroin or just doing whatever catches their (shallow) interest of the moment. Policing itself is not done with much finesse--there’s no concern with lengthy trials, and not much concern with investigation, but if you’re caught doing something against the law, they toss you in the can, where you’ll stay till the end. There still is a small detective squad, though, and one of the tasks before those detectives is to determine whether a death is clearly suicide, or if there might have been foul-play. As the story opens, Henry Palace sits before his cadaver, a hanger in a McDonald’s bathroom, and he says to himself, <i>Holy Moly</i>--this is it. My first murder.<br />
No one else thinks so, but that doesn’t bother him. Henry Palace always wanted to be a detective, and Henry Palace wants to be a good detective. The world is falling to pieces around him, but that’s a lot of information, and there don’t seem to be many things he can do with all that information. This information in front of him, however, he figures he can do something with. He figures he can find out who killed Peter Zell, and let his family and the world know that this particular guy didn’t give up. He wasn’t a hanger.<br />
And he does it a lot like Montaigne does it: he writes down all the details and then tests out the image, the experience of that information in his head:<br />
<br />
“I write quietly for a minute, faster and faster, the pen scratching in the silence of the lobby, the old man looking abstractedly at me, head tilted, eyes distant, like I’m something in a museum case. Then I thank him and put away my blue book and my pen and step out onto the sidewalk, the snow falling on the red brick and sandstone of downtown, and I’m standing there for a second watching it all in my head, like a movie: the shy, awkward man in the rumpled brown suit, climbing up into the shotgun seat of a shiny red pickup running a converted engine, driving off into the last hours of his life. {...] Now, driving slowly in the direction of the Somerset Diner, I’m trying to capture the memory of someone else’s feelings, trying to decide exactly what Peter Zell was experiencing in that moment.”<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjosrSEi1r4hnl-WQSccxtaMSPAm3vECYffo6gyJIWUB27XwmX-60bQiYexJF7sMwKcZq5sOykv4uYO2neKiG_BImTTSp_v2J_vHHzbNfaT_HI9AyaPvwhyphenhyphen639WeuFpXGCLRmAz37cMAo/s1600/2011_baron_detail_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjosrSEi1r4hnl-WQSccxtaMSPAm3vECYffo6gyJIWUB27XwmX-60bQiYexJF7sMwKcZq5sOykv4uYO2neKiG_BImTTSp_v2J_vHHzbNfaT_HI9AyaPvwhyphenhyphen639WeuFpXGCLRmAz37cMAo/s1600/2011_baron_detail_1.jpg" height="400" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Detail: The Baron in the Trees, by Su Blackwell</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiamy0L2Q5Ubr1PBs5BG8CmoypbzMHbMHQBT-Keqq-RfsWZKzipnj076catG4D74GsQ6BKIUj0LFyM7Q7dW7ia4y0aE5pok9FEFlV_W_houLAOPipke9lMypa2kgql60UzKo1bDlq70VOE/s1600/2011_baron_detail_4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiamy0L2Q5Ubr1PBs5BG8CmoypbzMHbMHQBT-Keqq-RfsWZKzipnj076catG4D74GsQ6BKIUj0LFyM7Q7dW7ia4y0aE5pok9FEFlV_W_houLAOPipke9lMypa2kgql60UzKo1bDlq70VOE/s1600/2011_baron_detail_4.jpg" height="400" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Detail: The Baron in the Trees, by Su Blackwell</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Henry Palace does a lot of that, of trying to see events that already happened unfolding before him, trying to feel the emotions of someone no longer present, and where those emotions might have pushed them. And when someone is talking to him, maybe in a threatening manner, he often sits deep inside himself and lets his consciousness float up like a fly on the wall, and his response is therefore generally much more useful than the standard use-of-force. For example, in the second book, Countdown City, in which there is no longer a detective squad, but there is still Henry Palace, who will do the right thing and do it well for a friend in need, he comes up against a woman who holds huge power in the “Free Society” in which he’s found himself, a place where he spends his entire visit inside sweating the realization that he could be executed at any moment. She has just called him out in the midst of a meeting in which a man’s life hangs in the balance, and she’s removed him from the room for a private chat about why he’s inside their walls under false pretext. The man on trial was accused of stealing, and Henry, waiting in the background, trying to figure out a way to speak to the ‘witness’ for his own case, had found himself asking what he was accused of stealing. He was told that it didn’t matter, and the attention he drew to himself with his arguments to the contrary led to this private chat. As he faces the woman, Julia, he is very aware of his tenuous grasp on life as long as he’s within these walls, and especially while in her presence.<br />
<br />
She tells him:<br />
“I’m answering your question from downstairs. How can we pass sentence on someone who might be innocent?” She glares at me through the thickness of her glasses. “Wasn’t that your question?”<br />
“Sort of.”<br />
“No, it was, that’s what you asked. Don’t backtrack. He didn’t do it, by the way.”<br />
She thrusts out her chin, waiting for astonishment, anger, argument. And in fact I am a little astonished; I can see him clearly, the shivering nervous defendant, barely out of his teens, hands bound, waiting for the punishment of the mob.<br />
But I hold my peace, I just raise my eyebrows, go, “Oh, really?”<br />
“Yeah. Really. I set him up.” She’s pushing, she’s feeling me out, and I know exactly why. She thinks that she hates me and she wants to make sure. I come to her tainted by my association with Martha, with “the wife,” and Julia Stone would therefore prefer to tell me to fuck off back to copland or wherever I came from. I therefore need to play it slow, hang back, save my questions until I think there’s a chance she’ll answer them.”<br />
<br />
He does, and she does. And they part on good terms, which is the only spoiler I’ll give you. This is why he’s such a good detective: he hangs back where we would expect him to lunge forward, he treads lightly, tilts his perspective this way and that, and always notes things down in his little notebook, for the focus, the detail. He tells us:<br />
<br />
“There is an aspect of my character that tends to latch on to one difficult but potentially solvable problem, rather than grapple with the vast and unsolvable problem that would be all I could see, if I were to look up, figuratively speaking, from my small blue notebooks. There are a million things I might be doing other than putting in overtime to make right one Bucket List abandonment, to heal Martha Milano’s broken heart. But this is what I do. It’s what makes sense to me, what has long made sense. And surely some large proportion of the world’s current danger and decline is not inevitable but rather the result of people scrambling fearfully away from the things that have long made sense.”<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQsT5gP8uXIYOzjBp_-ZBjQUpombD8J_208MpuXUHIkMiMUrflSY3LZVffcnqLdKiY7MrJLUmazY97No8vLahi9Wonju4H1gynHY7bVrv1w4IBAL0n9z5FWWOZzWrgoa4TbY8vVx4VB-k/s1600/2011_baron_detail_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQsT5gP8uXIYOzjBp_-ZBjQUpombD8J_208MpuXUHIkMiMUrflSY3LZVffcnqLdKiY7MrJLUmazY97No8vLahi9Wonju4H1gynHY7bVrv1w4IBAL0n9z5FWWOZzWrgoa4TbY8vVx4VB-k/s1600/2011_baron_detail_2.jpg" height="400" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Detail: The Baron in the Trees, by Su Blackwell</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXHUVHMUq748U2gDWom5jqphg6bBA4-oOtkU0LK7LcYpE2aBuKl3WhH-f7eTNfzN-Dcw7_2eTewfp52Ivgib3Vq8QMomnMGNEeQ1jTtVzenyuxXA36Raw7o0U0nYi1spY3VPhnfV5R1o4/s1600/2011_baron_detail_3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXHUVHMUq748U2gDWom5jqphg6bBA4-oOtkU0LK7LcYpE2aBuKl3WhH-f7eTNfzN-Dcw7_2eTewfp52Ivgib3Vq8QMomnMGNEeQ1jTtVzenyuxXA36Raw7o0U0nYi1spY3VPhnfV5R1o4/s1600/2011_baron_detail_3.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Detail: The Baron in the Trees, by Su Blackwell</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
At another moment, as he struggles to remain upright and conscious, bleeding heavily from an arterial wound in his arm, he explains a central reality to human life--even for those of us who are, right now, unaware of the comet hurtling towards us:<br />
<br />
“Because a promise is a promise, Officer Cavatone, and civilization is just a bunch of promises, that’s all it is. A mortgage, a wedding vow, a promise to obey the law, a pledge to enforce it. And now the world is falling apart, the whole rickety world, and every broken promise is a small rock tossed at the wooden side of its tumbling form.”<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj166DvgsV4WGM4yO7iVEhIffCCddiAhmlniINgP_75oLJZC-9jeMU-pvZXMnXMYSVb8UmfY4iTWc9kt42PDeteGyQd65tcAQJ3fOZJgIbQ_Z9Bo0MsmvUa5wJnTxkHW8nHZsekWMxDxqw/s1600/the_book_of_the_lost.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj166DvgsV4WGM4yO7iVEhIffCCddiAhmlniINgP_75oLJZC-9jeMU-pvZXMnXMYSVb8UmfY4iTWc9kt42PDeteGyQd65tcAQJ3fOZJgIbQ_Z9Bo0MsmvUa5wJnTxkHW8nHZsekWMxDxqw/s1600/the_book_of_the_lost.jpg" height="400" width="388" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Book of the Lost, by Su Blackwell</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
These two apocalyptic detective novels are surprisingly uplifting; the single man’s willingness to do the right thing, the example of his focus and the unexpected way that it changes eddies and then flows (and one day, maybe currents?) in the universe makes you believe. And it’s not that we have to put on the grim suit of the detective and step forward into danger to be a part of what he’s doing. In the astonishing way of these things, I was given as a gift a book called <u><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1558612394?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creativeASIN=1558612394&linkCode=xm2&tag=zoeinwonderla-20" target="_blank">The Little Locksmith</a></u>, a memoir written by Katharine Butler Hathaway, who also focused on these two ideas in order to make her life into something of genuine magic.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhedJMc7hPEYRoRn_-jZoJRQ4lnSBR6PV-8Mzd-fupzQ2NnAPnunYMg0q8elaGU2ImQXuq0Goi8ecJpVxMEGrIowQYV2_pr00bPO1bxncwe46ijb8e_BFFliTHKq3PKWQ64MTn4ScjG4HM/s1600/2007-the-beginning-of-something+beautiful.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhedJMc7hPEYRoRn_-jZoJRQ4lnSBR6PV-8Mzd-fupzQ2NnAPnunYMg0q8elaGU2ImQXuq0Goi8ecJpVxMEGrIowQYV2_pr00bPO1bxncwe46ijb8e_BFFliTHKq3PKWQ64MTn4ScjG4HM/s1600/2007-the-beginning-of-something+beautiful.jpg" height="400" width="267" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Beginning of Something Beautiful by Su Blackwell</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
When she was five, Katharine came down with a variant of tuberculosis that settles in the spine, and in an effort to keep her from becoming a “hunchback,” her doctors and parents had her strapped flat to a board, which is how she lived the next ten years of her life. When she got up, at age fifteen, she still had the dreaded curve to her spine, and she never grew out of the body of her ten-year-old self. She went on to do much, however, and in this memoir, which is a jewel--a treasure on par with <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0896597970?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creativeASIN=0896597970&linkCode=xm2&tag=zoeinwonderla-20" target="_blank">Unexpected Journeys</a>--she describes her life as if it were a miracle she had been given. But she does not downplay the terrors that came with all that time tied to the bed, often--as at night--alone, and acutely aware of terrible possibilities lying ahead of her:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6or84q8UNu2q4YqNm0Ffhfd8R0Ke-9g8b4sX-ni6wH5-C3G2YNq32L8ULYPbFg1_4hpIh3Vo7Qcb4HFH5U3xSS3dnUFWXsTMNvFLgpqFueJMafYWARXIe_EELDP2B9bVFsjfA8eTUPXg/s1600/creature+from+the+sea.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6or84q8UNu2q4YqNm0Ffhfd8R0Ke-9g8b4sX-ni6wH5-C3G2YNq32L8ULYPbFg1_4hpIh3Vo7Qcb4HFH5U3xSS3dnUFWXsTMNvFLgpqFueJMafYWARXIe_EELDP2B9bVFsjfA8eTUPXg/s1600/creature+from+the+sea.jpg" height="273" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Creature from the Sea by Su Blackwell</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
“I had two hideous familiars, two fiendish jailers, who with the sudden onrush of darkness and solitude leapt on me every night and seized me on on each side and would not let me go. These two were two Awful Thoughts which my mind had hit upon in its childish explorings and had been poisoned by and made sick and swollen by, as if one of them had been a snake that had bitten me and the other an evil plant that had stung me. One of the two Awful Thoughts was the endlessness of Space, and the other was the endlessness of Time. Every night, held in the grip of these two horrors, my little brain rolled over backward in humble, piteous convulsions of fear, and my body trembled and shook with the hideous disaster of having been born into this awful universe, of being forced to exist in the very arms of these two unthinkable things.[...] Each night the whole terrible realization would spread slowly and surely to the very edges of my body and mind, soaking me, cooking me, in the pure poison of horror. [...]Every night, as if I were compelled as a sort of punishment, I went over and over the same hopeless path, climbing up to the brink of unthinkableness and then tumbling back again, up and back, up and back--until I could actually feel the aching groove the repetition made inside my head...”<br />
<br />
During the day, she was able, by turning an intimate focus upon objects brought to her, or plant-life outside her window, or her own collection of talismans, to construct a sense of wonder at the universe in all its details, and this focus came together with the discovery of writing and art to save her:<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSAxyVPnpEy3x1hKbzvUEyqsDRKEtkNgkGkayJYABerwnFi6sqGhkJulSV_jRvipiXLeRT_T3VfytPvSbUwL6oQ87SjOctkGnsgMfNCwgtsKTUlF7XeDBhuwYTJSMcEWysdS00pYyCqI8/s1600/From+the+Book.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSAxyVPnpEy3x1hKbzvUEyqsDRKEtkNgkGkayJYABerwnFi6sqGhkJulSV_jRvipiXLeRT_T3VfytPvSbUwL6oQ87SjOctkGnsgMfNCwgtsKTUlF7XeDBhuwYTJSMcEWysdS00pYyCqI8/s1600/From+the+Book.jpg" height="242" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Book illustration by Su Blackwell</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
“Although my back was imprisoned, my hands and arms and mind were free. I held my pencil and pad of paper up in the air above my face, and I wrote microscopic letters and poems, and made little books of stories, and very tiny pictures. I sewed the smallest doll clothes anybody had ever seen, with the narrowest of hems and most delicious little ruffles. I painted with water colors and made paper dolls and dollhouse furniture out of paper. I loved paper, colored paper, fancy tissue, and crepe paper and ordinary white or brown paper too. The commonest substance in the world, it had for me an uncommon charm because of all the things it suggested to my mind that could be made out of it. I used to hold a piece of paper in my hands up above my face and let my eyes dwell on it in a sort of trance until, like the Japanese flowers, it would begin to bloom. Appearing on it, in my mind’s eye, some little object would take shape which to me seemed the most adorable little object in the world--a house, a box, a fan, or a screen. Then, having seen the image of it, I would put my scissors and paints and paste and fingers to work in order to bring that darling little object into being. It was surely the magic of transformation in this performance that made it so delightful, and almost awe-inspiring. Paper was the nearest thing to nothing in the way of material, and yet it was possible to make it into something that people would exclaim over and fall in love with--something that had a shape, something that opened and shut or stood up. It was something precious made out of nothing.”<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTVoKKyzBUFYGKbHgA5DMgZqHvgJg66bIzmE7CT8OUjryJJ3RPEs7cuGRLRSY_lw0dPFhD8420zT4QQzZV2KARQL-E_bWpHL-NTc5hjQWzcB2cOLmxIC1wuDQ2YVbWJwXtaI7KhoigtoQ/s1600/sleeping+beauty+from+the+book.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTVoKKyzBUFYGKbHgA5DMgZqHvgJg66bIzmE7CT8OUjryJJ3RPEs7cuGRLRSY_lw0dPFhD8420zT4QQzZV2KARQL-E_bWpHL-NTc5hjQWzcB2cOLmxIC1wuDQ2YVbWJwXtaI7KhoigtoQ/s1600/sleeping+beauty+from+the+book.jpg" height="242" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Book Illustration by Su Blackwell</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhybwU0Sc86yHCa7h-7aqKlqfpA4xLIzZ_xntpYL4pGFCtWc91uPoG2ZkCp9Bfak1UA3WTIMloNnQvFh6fq-8ijrjgPp7B4qIDBCHm4UVMTZPjUVOKKjr7gmacMwrhmW-2izKmmnbTC0N8/s1600/+.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhybwU0Sc86yHCa7h-7aqKlqfpA4xLIzZ_xntpYL4pGFCtWc91uPoG2ZkCp9Bfak1UA3WTIMloNnQvFh6fq-8ijrjgPp7B4qIDBCHm4UVMTZPjUVOKKjr7gmacMwrhmW-2izKmmnbTC0N8/s1600/+.jpg" height="242" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Book Illustration by Su Blackwell</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Later, when she was up and out of the bed, she began to explore the evenings with her brother Warren, discovering a new sense of night which would be followed by a curious buzzing and odd sensation that, as she waited with pencil and paper, would turn into poems or stories, writings that would form the focus of her adult life, which led her, among other things, to Paris, where she became a part of the Surrealist circle, and also to love--something she never thought possible for someone “like her”--and a happy marriage.<br />
<br />
And for those who find it unlikely that the fictional Henry Palace’s method of dealing with aggression should be effective in real life, Katharine had yet another surprise. She described her time as a young teenager, first out of bed and unaccustomed to the attentions of anyone other than the loving family members who surrounded her, discovering just how horrible and frightening people can be. As she walked along the street, people would stop and stare, children would jeer and assault her, and laugh hatefully:<br />
<br />
“One day I suddenly realized that I had become so self-conscious and afraid of all strange children that, like animals, they knew I was afraid, so that even the mildest and most amiable of them were automatically prompted to derision by my own shrinking and dread. As soon as this dawned upon me I began to try to charm them like a lion trainer.<br />
By main force I began to lift the focus of my own attention, and consequently theirs too, off of myself and place it gently but firmly upon them instead. When they glanced up as I approached along the sidewalk they found me looking with interest into their own faces, as if I had noticed something quite astonishing and amusing in them. If they stared back without smiling I still managed to compel myself to look into their faces invitingly while I still pretended to be unperturbed and lightly amused.<br />
This method worked on them, and it worked on me. For I discovered that it was ridiculously easy to bend their soft and pliable attention back upon themselves, and then to make them unconsciously begin to feel a pleasant warmth being shed upon them, something even desirable and fascinating. At first it was only by a most desperate effort of imagination that I managed to summon up this ray of love and deep interest and direct it upon my enemies; but as soon as I saw that it worked my technique improved, and the charm worked better all the time until it suddenly merged into naturalness and was no longer a charm but the expression of real feeling. After that there was no fear or distrust left in me, and no child ever shouted at me again or, if any did, I didn’t hear it or know it.”<br />
<br />
Each of these books thoroughly investigate and develop the ideas of a little distance, a lot of attention, and a wonder at the details of the universe, and they all face down terrors in a way that gives a unique sense of hope, wonder and strength to the reader. Enjoy them!<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />zoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16526746200112764467noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3841684678223214738.post-69140078573045179582014-02-04T13:58:00.000-08:002014-02-07T10:25:18.262-08:00Toy Theater<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipncUcPeALxqPSoabkGiEmDZhNqnyd6mLgRXAgF-xKojPSumh16HqhrIZk-dl__G8mMoKF9cWvTfb_RPGzwqm9WiAOjShFO-Ngkj1N202Da6fvJE331Y3dGN6LHNfc6CcueucW9CBwerM/s1600/One.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipncUcPeALxqPSoabkGiEmDZhNqnyd6mLgRXAgF-xKojPSumh16HqhrIZk-dl__G8mMoKF9cWvTfb_RPGzwqm9WiAOjShFO-Ngkj1N202Da6fvJE331Y3dGN6LHNfc6CcueucW9CBwerM/s1600/One.jpg" height="400" width="311" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Toy Theater by Zoe Blue</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
I've been working on a drawing for a painting in which the world of puppetry has begun to slowly creep its way in, a sure sign of my little brain's gnawing on the problem of 3D puppet-creation for the <a href="http://clivehicksjenkins.wordpress.com/2013/11/26/20859/" target="_blank">puppet challenge</a> over at Clive's blog.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj10YkWS3mGlCGe-Ozzv8mTuhHhihCr5VscrR_1VXYRQxCqMKgNJ6c2qfWWtSVwWtDU4e0hJv4ohyphenhyphenYWlqmRAEjrmfh2-p5tC5Avv5pbd-3CHQ1aHdcbNROV4yd3blTMzyouLvKYnEmQw2w/s1600/THREE.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj10YkWS3mGlCGe-Ozzv8mTuhHhihCr5VscrR_1VXYRQxCqMKgNJ6c2qfWWtSVwWtDU4e0hJv4ohyphenhyphenYWlqmRAEjrmfh2-p5tC5Avv5pbd-3CHQ1aHdcbNROV4yd3blTMzyouLvKYnEmQw2w/s1600/THREE.jpg" height="400" width="331" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Toy Theater by Zoe Blue</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
The theater is a small detail of the painting, but, in the spirit of the maquettes, also once a <a href="http://clivehicksjenkins.wordpress.com/2012/04/30/the-artlog-exhibition-of-maquettes-part-one/" target="_blank">challenge</a>, and also brought to life to serve as models, I decided to flesh it out, making my first foray into the world of three-dimensions.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilXbRQ_Z6yvGJfxyuKEV4anVnNp17Aaj8WtHn_lSycxNyX5qBjijmTEroh1LiPQIxDm2I3H7h22Z7pTxjEkoUG8W73PkyxEl1hTs6Chwo58x1_MlV-stO1sW0IW8mz1Hv2_Wfp0S809ns/s1600/five.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilXbRQ_Z6yvGJfxyuKEV4anVnNp17Aaj8WtHn_lSycxNyX5qBjijmTEroh1LiPQIxDm2I3H7h22Z7pTxjEkoUG8W73PkyxEl1hTs6Chwo58x1_MlV-stO1sW0IW8mz1Hv2_Wfp0S809ns/s1600/five.jpg" height="400" width="326" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Toy Theater by Zoe Blue</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
The base and frame of the stage are wooden, which <a href="http://greybell.tumblr.com/" target="_blank">Gabriel</a> helped me with, kindly protecting my little sloppy fingers from their assured destruction.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3lWknf6jXRdadosr5Xy4rVzPP9_t_yvomqFkXvyQ1KlDevofqu4qamaDVUfEZFgrLxQtEf-MprMMHW89LZ-wwe4KrilEtTBqQrq_uqqGOHIfNepx_hOPLDYeD_nWAQaPQvQ8fB9UbjuI/s1600/six.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3lWknf6jXRdadosr5Xy4rVzPP9_t_yvomqFkXvyQ1KlDevofqu4qamaDVUfEZFgrLxQtEf-MprMMHW89LZ-wwe4KrilEtTBqQrq_uqqGOHIfNepx_hOPLDYeD_nWAQaPQvQ8fB9UbjuI/s1600/six.jpg" height="400" width="317" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Toy Theater by Zoe Blue</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Somewhere out there is a certain beautiful blonde who will recognize a pomegranate and fancy boots.<br />
<br />zoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16526746200112764467noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3841684678223214738.post-72746226057020130962014-01-25T12:11:00.001-08:002014-01-25T12:11:57.660-08:00The Reincarnation of Remedios<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih81XvuiAb0YohWgKNtiULyOmPHCSumucqHvYV-W40UfCxtplzC_5PaoqmGEcBbD851U2JNRZR7NNDkVFqv6IV4uRqdFn3gQ0RHjpxVYqbe8IJGrQIh2Uj5IzWQNLNUWdCKPbla-qwYm4/s1600/still-life-reslicitando-1963.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih81XvuiAb0YohWgKNtiULyOmPHCSumucqHvYV-W40UfCxtplzC_5PaoqmGEcBbD851U2JNRZR7NNDkVFqv6IV4uRqdFn3gQ0RHjpxVYqbe8IJGrQIh2Uj5IzWQNLNUWdCKPbla-qwYm4/s1600/still-life-reslicitando-1963.jpg" height="400" width="285" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Still Life Reviving," by Remedios Varo</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /><div>
Among the notes, stories, and letters that she never published is a letter Remedios Varo wrote to --if it was in her usual manner-- someone whose address she picked out of the phone book, probably for his very interesting name, or the very interesting name of his street, or some other significant detail. In this letter, she presents herself as the reincarnated spirit of someone he once knew:</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“My dear sir,<br />I have allowed a prudent amount of time to pass, and now I see--that is--I feel certain that your spirit is in an advantageous state for communicating with me. I am a reincarnation of a girlfriend you had long ago. She was not exceptionally favored, speaking in terms of physical appearance: large nose, freckled skin, red hair, and a bit underweight. Fortunately, my current incarnation has only conserved the red hair as a physical feature. The rest...my friend, hot stuff! Greek nose, seductive curves-- without being fat, I benefit from unparalleled abundances and, bottom line....so I have a few wrinkles? An insignificant detail equivalent to the noble patina that all objects of good quality attain.<br />This reincarnation wasn’t simple. After traveling first through the body of a cat, then through an unknown creature belonging to the world of speed--that is to say, one of those who pass through us at more than 300,000 km/second (which is why we don’t see them), then my spirit poured itself, unexplainably, into the heart of a piece of quartz. Thanks to an abominable storm, the electrical phenomena turned in my favor and lightning struck said piece of quartz, rescuing my spirit, which spiraled out to rest in the body of a woman of ample flesh who happened to be around. I am satisfied with my current circumstance, so I am taking a chance, writing you with the hopes that you haven’t forgotten me.[...]” (my translation)</blockquote>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Note that she passes through all these lives while the guy she’s writing to is still hanging around in his one, unchanging (unevolving) mind-body--her travels through life have been so extraordinary that she is no longer the same person at all, though physically it might seem that all she's done is gain a few pounds and a few wrinkles...</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaV2jEyMvgQ-hUvaRHCIcWng7Y39g0Atz-3SfAlQXP9bBfNALRjnmvU_y2EJBefDiSB1awAwTefRa2OVcASydmEzazNIrAlUTn3KDD8lgGo7nl-oP_NsyCu_OvO3h2eWsZ5ApZEDwqTRU/s1600/remedios_varo_les_mures_canvas_print.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaV2jEyMvgQ-hUvaRHCIcWng7Y39g0Atz-3SfAlQXP9bBfNALRjnmvU_y2EJBefDiSB1awAwTefRa2OVcASydmEzazNIrAlUTn3KDD8lgGo7nl-oP_NsyCu_OvO3h2eWsZ5ApZEDwqTRU/s1600/remedios_varo_les_mures_canvas_print.jpg" height="400" width="323" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">“The Immured,” by Remedios Varo; Maybe the atoms of the people who lived there before now form part of the wall; maybe their human forms are not complete because they still shed atoms, some forming the bird, others growing into a yellow flower, watered by the umbrella someone left behind which will now--won’t it--carry some piece of the couple with it when it is next taken somewhere else..</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
Bill Bryson starts out his <u>Brief History of Nearly Everything</u> in a manner reminiscent of Varo’s letter:</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“Welcome. And congratulations. I am delighted that you could make it. Getting here wasn’t easy, I know. In fact, I suspect it was a little tougher than you realize.<br />To begin with, for you to be here now trillions of drifting atoms had somehow to assemble in an intricate and curiously obliging manner to create you. It’s an arrangement so specialized and particular that it has never been tried before and will only exist this once.”</blockquote>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He goes on to say something that suggests Varo’s following the right path:</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“The average species on Earth lasts for only about four million years, so if you wish to be around for billions of years, you must be as fickle as the atoms that made you. You must be prepared to change everything about yourself--shape, size, colour, species affiliation, everything--and to do so repeatedly....So at various periods over the last 3.8 billion years you have abhorred oxygen and then doted on it, grown fins and limbs and jaunty sails, laid eggs, flicked the air with a forked tongue, been sleek, been furry, lived underground, lived in trees, been as big as a deer and as small as a mouse, and a million things more.”</blockquote>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So, spend time understanding cat-hood, upping your velocity, and experiencing yourself as the jewel you have actually been and still, in some sense, are--because you need to be ready. (And all this practice is great for developing a wider perspective, which might just allow you to see the necessary steps to your next evolution more clearly.)</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrbVfYPAH0IHjzx3dCWsNOf3GRchdNORYyS3ks6-Guh2MQKrw_PwNwuNwaZaQLXVeqc_QERfL20pFrcDwKbljHcoIjIg25VfIYpn-ZoY355VaKT2DaKNxD2ziuIBfI3FOoNAsuBloAhRw/s1600/Remedios+Varo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrbVfYPAH0IHjzx3dCWsNOf3GRchdNORYyS3ks6-Guh2MQKrw_PwNwuNwaZaQLXVeqc_QERfL20pFrcDwKbljHcoIjIg25VfIYpn-ZoY355VaKT2DaKNxD2ziuIBfI3FOoNAsuBloAhRw/s1600/Remedios+Varo.jpg" height="400" width="327" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">by Remedios Varo</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<div>
In <u>The Book of Barely-Imagined Beings</u>, a 21st century bestiary in which he describes the impossibility of living beings we know actually exist and the amazing ways in which those creatures interact with the same universe we do, Caspar Henderson says of the Sponge:</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“But perhaps the greatest wonder is the insight sponges offer into how animal and human life as we know it came to be. The story starts with the discovery, first reported in 1907, that some species can be strained through a mesh so fine that only individual cells pass through and yet – in the right circumstances – form a new, fully functioning animal. And it continues with the realization that choanocytes, the cells central to a sponge’s functioning, closely resemble single-celled animals called choanoflagellates. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Choanoflagellates are plankton: tiny protozoans that feed on even tinier bacteria. Thousands or even millions will be in a bucket of water hauled from coastal seas. They often thrive on their own but they also tend to form colonies of cells that are all alike but benefit by sticking together. This characteristic is far from unique; many bacteria and single-celled organisms do the same. What is unique is that the genes choanoflagellates use to manufacture proteins that stick their cells together are very like the genes found in all multicellular animals for the same purpose. Indeed, the match is so close that it seems almost certain that we evolved from them.”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So: divide the whole into all its little parts and then....create a new whole. Fully functioning, there it is. And humans developed from the same basic parts. So, if you were, like me, snorting with laughter as you read her letter to her estimable remembered “friend,” think again. Maybe you, too, have a <a href="http://zoe-in-wonderland.blogspot.com/2013/03/st-fevronia-ii-sea-gypsies.html" target="_blank">cat tail </a>.</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsWP_dF4xXIgqRoPOHVefUB4bnsFVhBaJlc-XZodUhx_yoAVCm0zl8d9y8gAOzm3z2SObi822FWH1TV5tFwfwmzxmonH6BBJz_XWK5hmRX_zNxORKIe03m3yeAPEe_ChDkBzD1Ng7z2BQ/s1600/Sympathy+by+Remedios+Varo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsWP_dF4xXIgqRoPOHVefUB4bnsFVhBaJlc-XZodUhx_yoAVCm0zl8d9y8gAOzm3z2SObi822FWH1TV5tFwfwmzxmonH6BBJz_XWK5hmRX_zNxORKIe03m3yeAPEe_ChDkBzD1Ng7z2BQ/s1600/Sympathy+by+Remedios+Varo.jpg" height="400" width="354" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Simpatía, by Remedios Varo: She has *several* cat tails.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<br /></div>
<br />zoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16526746200112764467noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3841684678223214738.post-10206171145099564762014-01-18T12:00:00.000-08:002014-01-18T12:52:46.282-08:00Maki Horanai: Creating the Universe<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKrf6iPHeLHSojx35tyx4TZy5vFti1JNpvnZP7t156o67vG0gyY6cKXYFX6FlXwOjyY1NqS17eSykxsEQGhnAiLs7pSIRy2SDrp0WK7-Abrei98zSpqejK05KZc0ENq1QtUJjazllBt7w/s1600/Maki5_fs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKrf6iPHeLHSojx35tyx4TZy5vFti1JNpvnZP7t156o67vG0gyY6cKXYFX6FlXwOjyY1NqS17eSykxsEQGhnAiLs7pSIRy2SDrp0WK7-Abrei98zSpqejK05KZc0ENq1QtUJjazllBt7w/s1600/Maki5_fs.jpg" height="297" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">by Maki Horanai</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Ocean whispers.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">I am hopping on that sound.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Feeling the tickle of the roots from my toes,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">I am departing from the ground.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">My bird soul is gently lifting off,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Simply defying gravity.</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Brushing the Moon and the deep Sky,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Into the Gold background I fly.</span><br />
<br />
--<a href="http://www.redbubble.com/people/vesnavd/portfolio" target="_blank">Vesna</a><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5_t4hNL0uiEGYad21y-XhD8XruI0iCi7FotuJjEMx7aWWPRNB0lNlJDJwZY5ZhE6IzqVOjmnqOf_gfEwguLtrggVHg0IZ4ELQ1OBQjL1aK9mLL1gTqHu0Z6aO85QSBX57flpNMkD-rVo/s1600/horanai2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5_t4hNL0uiEGYad21y-XhD8XruI0iCi7FotuJjEMx7aWWPRNB0lNlJDJwZY5ZhE6IzqVOjmnqOf_gfEwguLtrggVHg0IZ4ELQ1OBQjL1aK9mLL1gTqHu0Z6aO85QSBX57flpNMkD-rVo/s1600/horanai2.jpg" height="400" width="348" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">by Maki Horanai</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
Maki Horanai's paintings are moments in which quietly-focused beings create the details of the world we find most startling or inspiring.<br />
Above, the figure pulls the sky over the burning gold fire of the firmament, perhaps to 'ease' the burn of the sun and stars, protect our fragile flesh, allow us life. The sky crosses outside of the canvas, reminding us that this is not a painting, it's an <i>act</i>, a moment of magic which directly affects us. Birds cross from the sky, across the gold and into the red (pulse of life) of the dress, their flight covering layers of being... It is an act of love, a defiance of gravity.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKYu3a0Lquu7NFeqqxaXeJd3y51-LgNzQWmE9cyANJgz9MtsRoa8v52Dw87tlhnzjuqXp4GQkrZ9KLa396Nt_gGCoknFOqwx6ykSOvyvBsgYPudLdmOBItuOXVWz5j82hJPLCnU25bXvs/s1600/554049_135350_creation+of+the+forest+song+(660x476)-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKYu3a0Lquu7NFeqqxaXeJd3y51-LgNzQWmE9cyANJgz9MtsRoa8v52Dw87tlhnzjuqXp4GQkrZ9KLa396Nt_gGCoknFOqwx6ykSOvyvBsgYPudLdmOBItuOXVWz5j82hJPLCnU25bXvs/s1600/554049_135350_creation+of+the+forest+song+(660x476)-1.jpg" height="287" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maki Horanai: Creation of the Forest Song</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
In <i>Creation of the Forest Song</i>, the mother and child have created a nest, with an egg or a piece of land/rock and a small sapling, to give the bird a place to safely create its song. At the table are other little bits of creation. The child (with a 'child-like' eye, curiosity, and faith) is the one with angelic wings, the one who has produced the safe place for the little bird.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXxDHwVVgM24jf13x7seR4vqaQJ1mfRTXwasWfiS39Bc7maTHemkuRXz9M0qCYzONH25HsCDh8Ny3tNPg4tXQfpeDsKfo0COlErIMuoJj1aEctrbIzvC0Lym1SKFJ0Qt2MWpq4xJ20WkE/s1600/img_1264_1_fs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXxDHwVVgM24jf13x7seR4vqaQJ1mfRTXwasWfiS39Bc7maTHemkuRXz9M0qCYzONH25HsCDh8Ny3tNPg4tXQfpeDsKfo0COlErIMuoJj1aEctrbIzvC0Lym1SKFJ0Qt2MWpq4xJ20WkE/s1600/img_1264_1_fs.jpg" height="267" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Carried Away," by Maki Horanai</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<br />
A figure reads a book, the ideas working through his mind and body via the pedals and wings and pumping upwards, again into a billowing cloud of golden flame (the fires of creation), to make a small community, a place of human life, trees, mountains, a lake. The ideas grow wings, become alive, real...<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhofFHcNY_zCRXvFrPhtvt-SSEeKxuakweMtZyKRpB7v42s_yxOPqFbB02lknlEvXeTODBS3ytPNvMdgZQ17bOiEB7SlvrUvjD2y4e1x6oiwEVdG91AfAu00CkXsdQdTjvDSH2fGrnq7WY/s1600/Maki+Horanai++3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhofFHcNY_zCRXvFrPhtvt-SSEeKxuakweMtZyKRpB7v42s_yxOPqFbB02lknlEvXeTODBS3ytPNvMdgZQ17bOiEB7SlvrUvjD2y4e1x6oiwEVdG91AfAu00CkXsdQdTjvDSH2fGrnq7WY/s1600/Maki+Horanai++3.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">by Maki Horanai</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
And another such beings rides a horse, carrying a small rock or egg with life creeping out of it in the form of a small, glowing seedling. Civilization seems to grow only as a development from this creative impulse and focus and care; the horse itself is stone and yet the figure rides, and spanning out from the pair are cities, and three significant stars, like some cross between the 'Guiding Light' and the three wise men.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjaVM6cV9mBF2GRjELSIx2JLE0cO5zZUOn6hzsO8m-c893WxIFWsVOvGREf2aEWPll1bJgWGUXA6KNFiAQCtBigWUXzikDPfqErypcXVrZTmmn2c3k8e28O3zX4wz5Kp0uzxbEkDBiDIY/s1600/maki_47_fs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjaVM6cV9mBF2GRjELSIx2JLE0cO5zZUOn6hzsO8m-c893WxIFWsVOvGREf2aEWPll1bJgWGUXA6KNFiAQCtBigWUXzikDPfqErypcXVrZTmmn2c3k8e28O3zX4wz5Kp0uzxbEkDBiDIY/s1600/maki_47_fs.jpg" height="395" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">by Maki Horanai</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOx74XQaoJCDnEr_wgrvSgIoCPogb3R_6lJlhXLlTkjDPRLKP1uVS3sGers9fuELjkVsxkDRr6-ybG-o4rGuAuiHAE7tsr7M4gN-j7gETn0R9uZNKyOJ3yS3vLVNxvRcfWRilxqHn9ez0/s1600/Maki+Horanai+-+Tutt%2527Art%2540+%252814%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOx74XQaoJCDnEr_wgrvSgIoCPogb3R_6lJlhXLlTkjDPRLKP1uVS3sGers9fuELjkVsxkDRr6-ybG-o4rGuAuiHAE7tsr7M4gN-j7gETn0R9uZNKyOJ3yS3vLVNxvRcfWRilxqHn9ez0/s1600/Maki+Horanai+-+Tutt%2527Art%2540+%252814%2529.jpg" height="400" width="322" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">by Maki Horanai</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
She creates the window frame and a square of blue sky for the bird out of endless space; on her back is a hand-wound gramophone to teach the music.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTP2AYhwnqIX6zMrxsZk9TYGiUrJRoRy12Nc-9dLKorHoy1GjA_6BhzRU7Uo1XyAEW2QwLfBrKIb6ZjdKVxBLR4Ky3yu6sfxmIolxFGwtPjGrumnOmF3OI4sGmcQnbgAtbFq-uv4e31uw/s1600/Maki_march_09-4.psd_fs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTP2AYhwnqIX6zMrxsZk9TYGiUrJRoRy12Nc-9dLKorHoy1GjA_6BhzRU7Uo1XyAEW2QwLfBrKIb6ZjdKVxBLR4Ky3yu6sfxmIolxFGwtPjGrumnOmF3OI4sGmcQnbgAtbFq-uv4e31uw/s1600/Maki_march_09-4.psd_fs.jpg" height="317" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">by Maki Horanai</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiND08bsQodMYCwcT7C4fSjm-B4yqAaJU04iNUJeHOHHro_0f8fB32GMxCDuaiDQoPpAYXwK9iUeYsfXFAyMboxBtiR5wDRUiVVKZMH4OgC0i1a_DCJxB4wZrgcdaKL4H-DiVW2bRY5rk0/s1600/Maki_the_tuner_-_acrylic_on_canvas_-_91x122_fs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiND08bsQodMYCwcT7C4fSjm-B4yqAaJU04iNUJeHOHHro_0f8fB32GMxCDuaiDQoPpAYXwK9iUeYsfXFAyMboxBtiR5wDRUiVVKZMH4OgC0i1a_DCJxB4wZrgcdaKL4H-DiVW2bRY5rk0/s1600/Maki_the_tuner_-_acrylic_on_canvas_-_91x122_fs.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">by Maki Horanai</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"My work has been strongly influenced by the nature of my childhood. I grew up in snowy villages along the sea coast in northern Japan. The severe power of the ocean, together with the pure, clean, quiet atmosphere are deeply embedded in my memory. When I was sleeping, the sound of waves was always in my ears. Away from city lights and tall buildings, the stars and moon were always present overhead at night.<br />
I adore the gold background of old paintings of both the east and west, and, as I started to paint, elements of this style surfaced in my work. The works of Giotto (14th century), Fra Angelico (15th century) and Kano Eitoku (16th century) have particularly impressed me.<br />
I’m not consciously aware of the meaning of my paintings as I work. If I know it, then probably I can’t paint. Towards the end of each painting, stories make themselves known to me."--Maki Horanai</blockquote>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2DxSsyF8XLU-LXT2xyW7RlMxWcWNCMTqVxD10o11rFbuHGWPP_GbGIvnw1lcca_PjcebR9eOB2WuGP8dSHfWLwIeAyBeuDx89_QcPiPH-FGqBCBjLqBnSrLuNM62mBlBBVwGWWkk4HoU/s1600/maki-horanai-exhibition-artworks-tamborine-mountain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2DxSsyF8XLU-LXT2xyW7RlMxWcWNCMTqVxD10o11rFbuHGWPP_GbGIvnw1lcca_PjcebR9eOB2WuGP8dSHfWLwIeAyBeuDx89_QcPiPH-FGqBCBjLqBnSrLuNM62mBlBBVwGWWkk4HoU/s1600/maki-horanai-exhibition-artworks-tamborine-mountain.jpg" height="312" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">by Maki Horanai</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3quHWHP_efYFZlljDrrTNBiWo6Vy4QseCD8EvKlz99NkhA6QFd3Tig6HcF1L6YoB9IPUmic-7QSAcxMyRul8y84uC-2WXByc8auA1Ez9wFytlhTDkMolNb0cJd3kO_7AN4f_pKJXkgUA/s1600/maki-horanai-exhibition-mount-tamborine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3quHWHP_efYFZlljDrrTNBiWo6Vy4QseCD8EvKlz99NkhA6QFd3Tig6HcF1L6YoB9IPUmic-7QSAcxMyRul8y84uC-2WXByc8auA1Ez9wFytlhTDkMolNb0cJd3kO_7AN4f_pKJXkgUA/s1600/maki-horanai-exhibition-mount-tamborine.jpg" height="186" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">by Maki Horanai<br />
The text: "Some years ago I was standing on the shore, watching the crescent moon in the sky. It was very close to the ocean, almost touching it...I was wondering what kind of sound the moon makes as it descends into the sea." The painting on the left is "The mind in the heart of the moon," the center painting is "on the path down to the sea", and the third is "spinning slowly."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcDqaIcvYLw7AvM2ofE6f5V1FNJjmNGKobZSeG4y0LhdbI1SX47-uY5zRZRIN2tk1hxN_u4IIOXu29zbcui689biGNm4rPrkJZSiJYNFYpek-PDjNVsFlvCXwSg6H7ODtv0NUCZPsQ2Ac/s1600/Maki5_fs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcDqaIcvYLw7AvM2ofE6f5V1FNJjmNGKobZSeG4y0LhdbI1SX47-uY5zRZRIN2tk1hxN_u4IIOXu29zbcui689biGNm4rPrkJZSiJYNFYpek-PDjNVsFlvCXwSg6H7ODtv0NUCZPsQ2Ac/s1600/Maki5_fs.jpg" height="238" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">by Maki Horanai</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1QoLfQfIpjMTzkUXc7WrxjCxWOMFmX4Xr8QGbSU-q5adnvBsYNoohyGLJhk4D-L89oTOAtfr4Wd_ac2hcJggtv73VwfGNdXsKaDScweYQTgod2tCLtDRClWqSsoZzh75CDzssHQazXUY/s1600/Maki+Nurturing+Music.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1QoLfQfIpjMTzkUXc7WrxjCxWOMFmX4Xr8QGbSU-q5adnvBsYNoohyGLJhk4D-L89oTOAtfr4Wd_ac2hcJggtv73VwfGNdXsKaDScweYQTgod2tCLtDRClWqSsoZzh75CDzssHQazXUY/s1600/Maki+Nurturing+Music.jpg" height="287" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Nurturing Music" by Maki Horanai</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2KA51PlNddouPWwYIEAx2e6INX33S0XzWEgXXS53qdz2bZRCPW3otLbmfZKvjOSDYHaegIIYRbUR1o53Dn48TLKON2qOirPQ-VRRWHpsv0rB0XbPL4lgxCpajZ8mEBQTSKH580Zw-IAs/s1600/Maki+Unfinished+Constellation.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2KA51PlNddouPWwYIEAx2e6INX33S0XzWEgXXS53qdz2bZRCPW3otLbmfZKvjOSDYHaegIIYRbUR1o53Dn48TLKON2qOirPQ-VRRWHpsv0rB0XbPL4lgxCpajZ8mEBQTSKH580Zw-IAs/s1600/Maki+Unfinished+Constellation.jpg" height="320" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Unfinished Constellation" by Maki Horanai</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
She now lives in Queensland, where she holds yearly exhibitions at <a href="http://www.marksandgardner.com/" target="_blank">Marks and Gardner Gallery on Tamborine Mountain</a>.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW-uu6pS6fic5OvdrGJBYMACCiloYQpw6lKxftGqS90emPeKQPYX0B-GNTLEm8rmEFXJ_9ntc01wShyphenhyphenFh_a6rtKOUueZ3H8jJmb5EjeCsTujwHonqZ548RBNhoukpzqFet1kZhZ372j30/s1600/Maki+Moments+of+Connection+with+the+Universe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW-uu6pS6fic5OvdrGJBYMACCiloYQpw6lKxftGqS90emPeKQPYX0B-GNTLEm8rmEFXJ_9ntc01wShyphenhyphenFh_a6rtKOUueZ3H8jJmb5EjeCsTujwHonqZ548RBNhoukpzqFet1kZhZ372j30/s1600/Maki+Moments+of+Connection+with+the+Universe.jpg" height="318" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Moments of Connection with the Universe," by Maki Horanai</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4we8QZ3LGjQgoMaWSSq0pb2QVX-u24nP4q_csubuP32Mr3ML0VTV2E00fz69KCmDIqQGx8q3RbBkCeBHQUgzZigcybM2TZB0WxZ1oqa_kgF4ZIoFTFcZmn_FLW03LnUnMP1L_ZXFUjUo/s1600/Maki+Horanai+-+Tutt'Art@+(3).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4we8QZ3LGjQgoMaWSSq0pb2QVX-u24nP4q_csubuP32Mr3ML0VTV2E00fz69KCmDIqQGx8q3RbBkCeBHQUgzZigcybM2TZB0WxZ1oqa_kgF4ZIoFTFcZmn_FLW03LnUnMP1L_ZXFUjUo/s1600/Maki+Horanai+-+Tutt'Art@+(3).jpg" height="320" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">by Maki Horanai</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Discovered <a href="http://bimbimbieplus.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Via</a> Birdy, who also is offering for the second year the Snail Circle--this was really wonderful the first year and I encourage *everyone* to join: you are paired with one other snail-mailer per month, to whom you send a hand-written letter which includes (along with whatever else you write) a passage from a book by which you are currently being blown away. From this, you are certain to be exposed to many new books you otherwise would have missed, and many new friends all over the world. Join us by dropping her an <a href="mailto:bimbimbe@yahoo.com.au" target="_blank">email</a>.</div>
zoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16526746200112764467noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3841684678223214738.post-10607486857233583962014-01-14T18:46:00.002-08:002014-01-14T18:48:34.704-08:00On Art and Science<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTza6-aZr6dQU0uWEFA5FZ55c6eARXStYdpe03dvmwrtwd3DxJVgsSySXqB3PXSwnHJ7vvyBDRlwcl8VL41JebzeonDZlpEPnVSsOn2ptC7pa-dRReSB3kee7HLRLCIoM6Zf8Bhav9WBs/s1600/Clive+on+Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTza6-aZr6dQU0uWEFA5FZ55c6eARXStYdpe03dvmwrtwd3DxJVgsSySXqB3PXSwnHJ7vvyBDRlwcl8VL41JebzeonDZlpEPnVSsOn2ptC7pa-dRReSB3kee7HLRLCIoM6Zf8Bhav9WBs/s320/Clive+on+Cover.jpg" width="261" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0199315698?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creativeASIN=0199315698&linkCode=xm2&tag=zoeinwonderla-20" target="_blank">Book by Poly Potter</a><br />
Cover painting by <a href="http://clivehicksjenkins.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Clive Hicks-Jenkins</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“For you will learn to see most acutely out of/ the corner of your eye/ to hear best with your inner ear.”--John Stone</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Established in the early 1990s, <i>Emerging Infectious Diseases</i> sought to bring both academic communities and public health communities timely information on emerging health issues. With such a goal, it was (and remains) important to reach as broad an audience as possible; it was intended not as an reference archive, but as a tool for greater communication. The founders and editors of the journal go about this task in a variety of ways, for example with web-publication as well as print, and with the inclusion of a section entitled <i> Another Dimension</i>, which is a segment devoted to essays, short stories and poems relating to philosophical issues of science and health. Another method is by drawing the reader in with a full-color work of art emblazoned on its cover, which Managing Editor Poly Potter ties to the theme of each month’s journal in an introductory essay. Those covers, along with some of the most popular of the essays, have finally been bound--in the year of her retirement from the journal--into a <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0199315698?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creativeASIN=0199315698&linkCode=xm2&tag=zoeinwonderla-20" target="_blank">beautiful book</a>, wrapped in a painting by <a href="http://clivehicksjenkins.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Clive Hicks-Jenkins</a>. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">In her introduction to the book, Poly explains: “Art humanizes and enhances science content and educates readers outside their areas of expertise about important unnoticed connections. Art accomplishes this by infusing scientific findings with empathetic understanding--in a literal way, through the faces and places of traditional painting or completely in the abstract through new ways of seeing. Beauty, color, emotion, style, and the eccentricity and vitality associated with the artists’ lives and times, against the formality of technical prose, open up the possibility, indeed the capacity, for alternative interpretation of data, by introducing the metaphor. The metaphor, according to Aristotle, owes its strength to making possible ‘an intuitive perception of the similarity of dissimilars,’ by implying likeness. A bird is not human, but a single element in its appearance can invoke humanity, just as a single element in a plant’s appearance can distinguish its species.” xi</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">But--</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“Amidst general enthusiasm about the use of fine art on our journal covers, some readers do question the ‘gratuitous’ use of color by a publication about science, decrying the cost and professing little interest in links to other disciplines. Science reviewers routinely reject Another Dimension manuscripts as ‘belonging in other venues,’ even when the science information given in lay terms is sound. And some in the art community are skeptical about links to science. Copyright permission requests for art images to use on the covers of Emerging Infectious Diseases have often been rejected by art institutions on the grounds that the art has nothing to do with disease emergence and might be degraded by any association with infection, even if the artists themselves have met untimely deaths from such infections or their community was ravaged by the plagues detailed between the journal covers. ‘For you can be trained to listen only for the oboe/ out of the whole orchestra.’[The line of poetry is from John Stone, cardiologist and poet, a contributor to the <i>Another Dimension</i> segment.]." xiii</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">What has come of it all is a beautiful coffee-table book with both pages of clusters of paintings and full-page covers (Picasso's <i>La Guernica</i> is a two-page spread that I couldn’t fit on my scanner), all in brilliant color and beautifully reproduced. But even more are the essays that link the art, the artist, the time period, the scientific theme of that month’s journal, and us. It is a book to dip into and discover new things, over and over.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo9QK1qcPkQcillqerIW7UAtX_-UlYIkfINqlKnDe_1WFLzeaKs094jpomG-WEnqvz5S3T0RnL803K3cjwewJZwM0P3Fk9fhl4VA-HgNC6HJ0Hi8h6OZ3qNyI5uUq5o_grLTNin0sLfaI/s1600/EPSON003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo9QK1qcPkQcillqerIW7UAtX_-UlYIkfINqlKnDe_1WFLzeaKs094jpomG-WEnqvz5S3T0RnL803K3cjwewJZwM0P3Fk9fhl4VA-HgNC6HJ0Hi8h6OZ3qNyI5uUq5o_grLTNin0sLfaI/s640/EPSON003.jpg" width="316" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some of the pages feature several covers, while others are full-page spreads.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8G80Nu27OuADlXV0PK1TjFfJDFIJZo6NtYxIhGCDPrLaVABZqpIPLRt4GFeVwMSjaFwNKdWVH6BtKdm1EuThb8ng6kFwZVHFDsMeJgSvAjRm1szCWYGsOFjeCZ5BUh77AyfXAyv02v84/s1600/EPSON005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8G80Nu27OuADlXV0PK1TjFfJDFIJZo6NtYxIhGCDPrLaVABZqpIPLRt4GFeVwMSjaFwNKdWVH6BtKdm1EuThb8ng6kFwZVHFDsMeJgSvAjRm1szCWYGsOFjeCZ5BUh77AyfXAyv02v84/s400/EPSON005.jpg" width="357" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Painting by Archibald Motley</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Sometimes it is the theme of the particular painting she focuses on to find her connections, other times it is the broader themes of a life’s output, and the impact of the personal history of the artist, as in the essay about Edvard Munch’s cover image:</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheUXZMXvLXuvWDkaTjNbJiJemTzxJskG_V39RlOzRKJ2lm67NbSq-6qQAbtXHEYYrHj23g1jKl7VCzKhU8LFuGdntOyje8GYAA9_d-2P34gfxiFhgw2TI3r51Jtqyh2j3OFq2edRpnC5U/s1600/EPSON004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheUXZMXvLXuvWDkaTjNbJiJemTzxJskG_V39RlOzRKJ2lm67NbSq-6qQAbtXHEYYrHj23g1jKl7VCzKhU8LFuGdntOyje8GYAA9_d-2P34gfxiFhgw2TI3r51Jtqyh2j3OFq2edRpnC5U/s400/EPSON004.jpg" width="295" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Painting by Edvard Munch</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
From her essay on the above cover:</div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“‘Illness, insanity, and death...kept watch over my cradle and accompanied me all my life,’ noted innovative Norwegian artist Edvard Munch. Deeply affected by the untimely death of his mother when he was 5 and his 15-year-old sister when he was 14, he devoted his early artistic efforts to painting their predicament and the ravages of tuberculosis, ‘the wan face in profile against the pillow, the despairing mother at the bedside, the muted light, the tousled hair, the useless glass of water.’”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">[...]</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Munch studied in Oslo and traveled extensively to Italy, Germany, and France, where he took in the influences of his contemporaries (Toulouse-Lautrec, van Gogh, Gaughin), who were turning the angst of modern civilization into symbolism and stark expressionism. Preoccupation with decadence and evil pervaded the artistic and literary climate of the day. Darkness and horror inspired deeply personal, highly expressive art in a variety of styles, all of which fit under the umbrella of symbolism, as long as they embodied its peculiarly gloomy state of mind. The movement’s emphasis on inner vision rather than observation of nature captured Munch’s haunted imagination and engaged his moody genius.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">She goes on to talk about his interest in psychology and his ability to express terror and anxiety without monsters, but through unnatural colors and a sense of anxious movement. Then she talks of the painting itself,</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“In <i>Self-Portrait after the Spanish Flu</i>, the tormented painter appears judge and victim of this pandemic killer. The terse yet unsteady demeanor, the puffy discolored glare, the quivering lines of fever and chills, only highlight the despair and isolation of the ‘grippe’ patient...”</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">...and so the art-lover learns something of the particular symptoms of the harsh epidemic...</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7EhXjPFdP9SQS1-bqC42q2i6lJ4d6uPTMytA17NARaovse64xc4_ObgtnAmodIgnvw1J_slJfwf16MTOLZiMQyN5FaqR-Ervqb5vwXkILHP2e5Qphw-8vIYKY4ytq59kDDLL0bbsqHzE/s1600/fred+machetanz.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7EhXjPFdP9SQS1-bqC42q2i6lJ4d6uPTMytA17NARaovse64xc4_ObgtnAmodIgnvw1J_slJfwf16MTOLZiMQyN5FaqR-Ervqb5vwXkILHP2e5Qphw-8vIYKY4ytq59kDDLL0bbsqHzE/s400/fred+machetanz.jpg" width="282" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image by Fred Machetanz</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">The essays constantly remind the reader about learning to see in new ways, about studying something foreign until you can see the quality that makes it not so far from your own experience, and then expanding your understanding from there. In her essay on Fred Machetanz’s painting, which graced the January 2008 cover, she tells us:</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“The art editor of Scribner’s once joked about a Machetanz painting, ‘You’ve put a cherry collored head on that Eskimo.’ The painter corrected him, ‘If you see an Eskimo under a golden pink sun, you’re going to see a red exactly like that...People don’t realize the colors that we get here. And then we have a longer change to look at those colors’ because of the long hours of daylight in the summer and late spring.”</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">In the cover painting, he showed a theme of everyday life for Eskimo men of his time (around 1935) which I would posit is not very similar to the everyday life of most of the readers of the journal. But the essay links this human experience to the disease issues of the Arctic regions, including those borne of the recent heating trends that are changing the environment and living conditions there so drastically.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7zk6oQCy6DCU9sTR_LxBn5O5dXhV8sr0iX8EMsBMyvXCioIGTitI6nnjghLNSd0MFE-eaaV8SeS74QRsinsfGzeMZT2phwoYEKzc5nKkPM8-uuMHHV_BFWfglHnDyTriTwu9PF5-Cx78/s1600/EPSON007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="361" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7zk6oQCy6DCU9sTR_LxBn5O5dXhV8sr0iX8EMsBMyvXCioIGTitI6nnjghLNSd0MFE-eaaV8SeS74QRsinsfGzeMZT2phwoYEKzc5nKkPM8-uuMHHV_BFWfglHnDyTriTwu9PF5-Cx78/s400/EPSON007.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wood-Block Print by Hokusai</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">The essay on Hokusai is full of fascinating information, from start to finish, and again, you find the emphasis on keeping the wider view, or sometimes just refuse the usual view:</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“In a traditional society of Confucian values and rigid regimentation, Hokusai was bohemian. Eccentric, rebellious, and temperamental, he cared nothing about convention and was reputed to move each time the notorious clutter and disorder of his home became unbearable. Legend has it that when invited once to paint maple leaves floating on the Tatsuta River, he drew a few blue lines and then repeatedly imprinted atop the scroll chicken’s feet he had dipped into red color. When his contemporaries drew the shoguns and samurai, he portrayed the common people, and when he painted landscapes, it was strictly from his own point of view.”</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">An interesting result of his stubborn insistence on his own point of view was that he mastered the techniques of his contemporaries not only in his own culture, but also in European culture, integrating different features until he had created something “which appeared Japanese to outsiders and Western to the Japanese.”</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">The theme of the month’s journal was water-related illnesses, and Hokusai’s tiny fisherman, facing this giant wave, presented to her an image of “human plight against overwhelming force,” which linked easily to many of the issues in that month’s journal, some of which were brought about in response to the 2004 tsunami.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyuQl5nP0pVjCeCeezy8HTUttup2TGmE6n26wK2NqjgM3EJsRyYCe3cXoEHmBsePRrO6UDVMpIlFB4B3TLU0RT_2KUawup7sBn0mgnFFNxWpHbtnog0mL2fwrFAch_rKcU6Bp9mpm6yzA/s1600/EPSON008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyuQl5nP0pVjCeCeezy8HTUttup2TGmE6n26wK2NqjgM3EJsRyYCe3cXoEHmBsePRrO6UDVMpIlFB4B3TLU0RT_2KUawup7sBn0mgnFFNxWpHbtnog0mL2fwrFAch_rKcU6Bp9mpm6yzA/s400/EPSON008.jpg" width="285" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Painting by Stelios Faitakis</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">A popular graffiti and mural artist, Greek painter Stelios Faitakis (whom I've written about before <a href="http://zoe-in-wonderland.blogspot.com/2011/04/climb-higher.html" target="_blank">here</a>) says of his art: “From the beginning, I chose to paint narrative pictures, like a still from a theatrical play: human characters in some environment doing some action--the simplest scenario possible,’ with hidden meanings, ‘as an extra for the more demanding eyes.’”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Here, the pathogen-vector, more commonly known as a bug, is front-and-center to the piece, hovering over everything....</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYUhyphenhyphenE162SpuR-2CtdoqRDav1BL5py3TrI5Xlsmn2qG617Ge6IrZIoDlqYb5Y2DD8HSz159BOffLAomHIHIANE5bMwlnF5ujvIs_BDtXV1RhLypj62-99R1C8gwet5b7Mexe4qXRppBk4/s1600/EPSON009.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYUhyphenhyphenE162SpuR-2CtdoqRDav1BL5py3TrI5Xlsmn2qG617Ge6IrZIoDlqYb5Y2DD8HSz159BOffLAomHIHIANE5bMwlnF5ujvIs_BDtXV1RhLypj62-99R1C8gwet5b7Mexe4qXRppBk4/s400/EPSON009.jpg" width="307" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The Call</i>, by Remedios Varo<br />
(sorry, this scan didn't process very well...)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Remedios Varo’s <i>Call </i>lit up the cover of the November 2004 issue, focusing on Women and Infectious Disease, and the author explored her particular blend of science and magic:</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“To this expansive world, Varo brought knowledge of engineering construction, painstaking attention to detail, a penchant for philosophical discourse, and fascination with alchemy and the occult. The result was a personal approach to surrealism, the unified vision of a fantastic world inhabited by creatures of the imagination, moving freely in and out of consciousness, proposing new solutions, offering alternative interpretations.”</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">In this issue are studies focused on diseases that affect women, and Poly’s essay highlights the social issues which add to the difficulties of finding and implementing treatments and cures:</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“Mysterious and provocative, the architectural stage is cluttered with conflicting clues. The walls are tall; the windows small and out of reach; the sky inflamed; the morbid folds props of oppression. Yet the floor is elaborately tiled, the doorways arched, the steps well-tended. The stage is firmly cast; oppression is institutionalized. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Varo’s enigmatic <i>Call</i>, part dream, part symbolic reality, seems at once a calling and a call to action. The flaming figure wears the signs and halo of science. Bathed in the light of knowledge, she steps forward boldly to dispel the darkness. In the painter’s surreal universe as well as ours, the female phantoms on the wall stand for poverty, confinement, disease. Overlooked by societies, biomedical research, and health care systems; battered by AIDS, malaria, and other infections; victimized by globalization; and stigmatized by the very diseases that confine and kill them, women slumber in the shadows. The flaming figure’s flask contains the science. Her call is a wake-up call.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“It is difficult /to get the news from poems/ yet men die miserably every day/ for lack/ of what is found there.”--William Carlos Williams</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Enjoy it!</span></div>
zoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16526746200112764467noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3841684678223214738.post-40807586798183977462014-01-04T12:38:00.000-08:002014-02-07T10:25:18.177-08:00Papa Legba<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV3BghSVUMV2BZf0mtbWSzCGWTu_rWNDoBAbiFop67XMw14S9yevkDsQ5V8FCA14dNCA3PH4yRlQ3A1kdxTqGs1QbGFuC2LSkZJYX7FeqUTSDK7MlK7Bobj6z4fJSzlaTSiaEds06C6oI/s1600/LEGBA+INK+web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV3BghSVUMV2BZf0mtbWSzCGWTu_rWNDoBAbiFop67XMw14S9yevkDsQ5V8FCA14dNCA3PH4yRlQ3A1kdxTqGs1QbGFuC2LSkZJYX7FeqUTSDK7MlK7Bobj6z4fJSzlaTSiaEds06C6oI/s400/LEGBA+INK+web.jpg" width="316" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Papa Legba<br />
Ink, 19x24 inches, by Zoe Blue</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
In an interview with Paul de Angelis, Leonora Carrington stated:<br />
<br />
“Yes, we distinguish life from death, but in my opinion things aren’t as they have been explained to us; I believe life and death must certainly be different for each person, like dreams are. I think that to understand something about death, first we have to understand the different places that exist within us, and dreams are one of those places; that is to say, the Paul and the Leonora of a dream are in some sense a different Paul and Leonora. It seems as if there exists a world in reverse: we have a body with which we go about different activities while our physical body remains inactive and asleep; with that other body we do things, go places, drive cars, ride a bike...” (translation mine).<br />
<br />
In that vein, death could be more like passing into a different dream; it’s not that you end, but more that this particular relationship between you and your surroundings ends and you pass into awareness of a different relationship. It’s interesting to read the interview in its original Spanish (as printed in Leonora Carrington: La realidad de la imaginacion, by Whitney Chadwick), as you see the distinction between the two forms of the verb ‘to be’ reflect a significant opinion about death: ‘estar’ signifies being in an impermanent sense--to say that he is handsome today, or in that suit, rather than handsome all the time; ‘ser’ signifies being in a permanent sense--to say the man is tall and white. But when you say someone is dead, you say “alguien está muerto,” a simple sentence, which when read this way removes much of the significance of death, as if it were simply a state that someone were passing through, as Leonora suggests above. There is a similar linguistic construct in Spanish when one speaks of the state of dreaming: where in English you dream of someone, in Spanish you dream with them: soñar con. I dreamt with her last night; there was a mystical meeting of our other selves in another place.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<a href="http://zoe-in-wonderland.blogspot.com/2013/09/papa-legba.html" target="_blank">Papa Legba</a> reigns over such meetings and crossings as the gate-keeper at any ceremony or attempt to communicate with the loa or the ancestors. He keeps this you from confusing with that you in your day-to-day activities, but he can allow this you to become conscious of that you, to borrow from or give to that you if you (and he) so desired. He can also reach into the ether, call up your dead relative and allow you a conversation outside of time. If we wanted to translate that experience into more scientifically acceptable phrasing, we could say that somewhere in your memory, you had a full model of that person (his perspective-paradigm) , and, given the proper mindset, you could actually converse with that model. That person’s energy, his spirit, exists in whole form across the memories of many people, and why shouldn’t we have the focus and commitment necessary to learning how to call up that energy and speak to it?<br />
<br />
There is obviously something of love involved in that exercise, and love is of course attached to the sensation of ecstasy, and ecstasy is what is called up when the drumming of the voodoo ceremony starts and the swaying begins and turns to dancing. Legba is called upon in the midst of that ecstasy; in an ecstasy of love and full-force commitment to the event, we are able to do anything, especially escape the limitations of our meager perceptive blinders.<br />
<br />
When I get on the subway, my mind is flooded with faces, words, sounds, the emotions of others. Out of necessity, my conscious mind ignores most of that information--my subconscious files it away without even asking ‘me’ if that’s ok, without ‘me’ even noticing. But if I decide to loosen the perceptive hold of that subconscious, to let go of the ego (my sense of me) that serves as the organizational structure of expectation and understandable experience that my subconscious works through, then I can have access to all the things that are happening around me that I don’t even realize I’m not seeing (recall the easily-missed gorillas here)--if I can somehow handle the overload.<br />
<br />
For example, in <u><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00F6D79BO?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creativeASIN=B00F6D79BO&linkCode=xm2&tag=zoeinwonderla-20" target="_blank">Fringeology</a></u>, Volk talks about the MRIs run on the brains of people at the peak of meditation, and how they show that during that peak the brain’s sense of spatial placement--you, there; me, here; person, thing, etc-- is completely shut off. All things, to the brain at that moment, are one. He gave the example of a subject named Robert, whose scans showed the same details as those found in the scans of the brains of Tibetan monks and Franciscan nuns:<br />
<br />
“Looking over the SPECT scan, Newberg could see that the areas of Robert’s brain associated with judging distances, angles, and depths—in short, his position in space—had gone whisper-quiet. During normal consciousness, this area—the posterior superior parietal lobe—lights up on a SPECT scan with the furious red of active blood flow. This part of our brain has a lot of work to do. It keeps us from running into walls and missing the chairs we intend to sit in. Even when we’re still, in fact, this area of the brain remains active: always aware of which parts of our body are in contact with the chair, and which are floating in space; how far away the water glass sits on the table, and how high. But in Robert, during the peak of his meditation, the blazing red turned cool green and blue. The suggestion was obvious: Robert felt himself become one with the universe because the part of his brain that tells him where his body begins and the objects around him end pretty much shut down.”<br />
<br />
But here’s where it’s taken even further than that by scientist Michael Persinger: once you’ve learned to shut down your ego--your sense of self-as-opposed-to-other-- you can, as I suggested above, move into the minds of others and hear them “speak.” MRIs show that you can experience the world as that other person:<br />
<br />
“Working with an under-the-radar psychic named Sean Harribance, Persinger claims to have found a pattern of brain activity that correlates with psychic functioning. ‘Here’s the really exciting part,’ he says. ‘Here’s the wow. When Harribance has actually gotten correct information, his brain state corresponds demonstrably with that of the person he’s reading.’”<br />
<br />
Going back to the sense of oneness and peace and union with a higher power all reflected in the MRIs of the monks and nuns and Robert, Volk says:<br />
<br />
“The sensations these practitioners report aren’t delusion; they are the self-directed workings of the human mind, like a horse put under harness. And even more important, these positive changes in brain function, if practiced enough, transform our baseline mental states in incredibly healthy ways. The amount of scientific research into the neurological effects of prayer and meditation is still small, but it is growing quickly. And what we’re finding is that short-term changes in our consciousness, during contemplative practice, produce long-term, positive neurological effects. People tend to think of their personalities and ways of being as somehow fixed. And in science, these traits and flaws alike have been linked to brain function. But as Waldman put it to me, ‘The whole notion that our brains are hardwired for much of anything is wrong. The name of the game is neuroplasticity.’”<br />
<br />
So, the drums roll, you dance, your ego loses its hold over you and a communion with all things--plants, rocks, animals, the dead, the gods and goddesses of our mythologies, our loved ones who are far far away-- becomes possible as your own specific traits and beliefs fall away. Don’t forget the ecstasy, because it’s key: love is key. And in this drawing, love is offered up with the pairing of the Hoopoe and the Nightingale, two birds with storied histories in several religious and folk traditions of leading the way to such unions of ecstasy; in the Sufi tradition, the Hoopoe leads all the birds of the universe to realize that they, together, make up the lord of the birds, God. In Aristophanes’ comedy, The Birds, the Hoopoe and his wife the nightingale guide the humans in their desire to create a realm of reality (somewhere between earth and the heavens) where they can live free of the political bickering and bloody sacrificial nonsense of normal human society.<br />
<br />
And in <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/3836526751?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creativeASIN=3836526751&linkCode=xm2&tag=zoeinwonderla-20" target="_blank">Hans Christian Anderson’s</a> The Nightingale, a small bird living deep in the forest becomes a favorite of the Royal Court and a source of fame for that Court world-wide. As a result of that fame, an automated nightingale is made as a gift to the Emperor, as a tribute to the real thing. At the moment of its arrival, the real bird disappears, and the people find that they are very happy with the automated one anyway, as its song is always the same, comforting in its familiarity, a song they themselves can learn and sing to themselves. One day, the emperor falls ill, and lies on his deathbed; a new emperor is chosen in preparation. The castle and courts are silent; mats are rolled out so that no disturbance should reach his room. No one comes to wind up his bird, and in the silence, the Emperor faces the harsh skeleton of Death and the whispering voices of all his deeds, all that has gone wrong and all that has been lost. He cries out in agony.<br />
<br />
“Suddenly, through the window came a burst of song. It was the little live nightingale, who sat outside on a spray. He had heard the emperor’s plight, and had come to sing of comfort and hope. As he sang, the phantoms grew pale, and still more pale, and the blood flowed quicker and quicker through the emperor’s feeble body. Even Death listened, and said, ‘Go on, little nightingale, go on!!’<br />
‘But,’ said the little nightingale, ‘will you give back that sword, that banner, that emperor’s crown?’<br />
And Death gave back these treasures for a song.”<br />
<br />
It’s the real--not automated--bird-song that brings the dying Emperor back to life, convinces Death himself to leave him be. Being alive, not being automatic (even though what’s known and expected is comfortable and makes us, in a comfortable sense, happy) is how we stay alive. The surprise of the song, the chance, the pure joy that creates it, the love for the listener--these things bring life where routine, blind expectation, and an authoritarian insistence on one, carefully-swept pathway in life, brings death. And in the tale, the Emperor rises from his bed and continues his reign.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgazmYH41kHv1dgOy3VpWbfvWGqVsu3xGJ5hyphenhyphenQYFo7XiBJVYEcLAVRVueiVLmKOAopd2PExaXhigpb2CEbE8Mxus-hYCznLweDfF5O-KdaJMfSaZJSn1Tz5zuEpTpbz7aq7Xoe2XzV7sVg/s1600/LEGBA+INK+detail+web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgazmYH41kHv1dgOy3VpWbfvWGqVsu3xGJ5hyphenhyphenQYFo7XiBJVYEcLAVRVueiVLmKOAopd2PExaXhigpb2CEbE8Mxus-hYCznLweDfF5O-KdaJMfSaZJSn1Tz5zuEpTpbz7aq7Xoe2XzV7sVg/s400/LEGBA+INK+detail+web.jpg" width="187" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Papa Legba detail<br />
by Zoe Blue</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
The Adonis plant, shown taking over the living side of the drawing, was created, according to Greek mythology, by the mingling of Aphrodite’s tears and the blood of her great love Adonis; it sprung up when the gods, moved by her immense grief at his death and her refusal to let his corpse go, agreed to allow Adonis to live half of the year on earth, and for her to follow him into the Netherworld for the other half. And again, love conquers any form of separation.<br />
<br />
I am planning to model my puppet for <a href="http://clivehicksjenkins.wordpress.com/2013/11/26/20859/" target="_blank">Clive and Peter’s challenge</a> on Papa Legba, but have not yet decided how I want to model his double existence as an old man and a young man (or even dead/alive); the <a href="http://zoe-in-wonderland.blogspot.com/2013/09/papa-legba.html" target="_blank">maquette</a> I made before split his face down the middle; here, the one rises up from the other. I don’t think I will use either method, but I do now have an idea... more on that soon, hopefully. <br />
<br />
**Note: Legba is often shown with his companion dog, and here his dog takes the form of the constellation Canis Major, with its prominent star, Sirius. For the ancient Egyptians, this was the the star that rose for the beginning of spring and the floods--floods which replenished the soil, to make new life possible. It therefore represented Isis, protector of the dead and goddess of children, as it disappears for the 70 days that she went to the underworld to bring her brother Osiris back to life. For the Greeks, its rise signaled the dog-days of summer, when you might be ‘star-struck’ or crazy from the heat, as the dogs apparently were. The Polynesians, though, saw it as the main star of a Great Bird constellation (recall Legba’s association with birds as well), Manu, signifying the beginning of winter; so, the constellation is a mark of resurrection, of flooding and regrowth, of summer if you look from here and winter if you look from there--a dog to some and a bird to others. All issues, of course, of perception.<br />
<br />
This one was also a present, for <a href="http://greybell.tumblr.com/" target="_blank">Gabriel</a>. :)<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
zoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16526746200112764467noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3841684678223214738.post-3041486716190217852013-12-26T07:11:00.000-08:002014-02-07T10:25:18.156-08:00Agia Eleni and the Blue Cat<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAqRHS_YJ0JehUNT92T9RjG3cd3dHtAPGxxI62XTWlSAT4cwF8dMfaPH-TEsILiY2XGp7QMzr2jnIiHWlcE_kkHyDJk6j3l5Eg4n7_MhKvGwi9lB6jRsBUZYjmoBVZG90yaRHu9FkpvaU/s1600/St+Helena+and+the+Blue+Cat+web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAqRHS_YJ0JehUNT92T9RjG3cd3dHtAPGxxI62XTWlSAT4cwF8dMfaPH-TEsILiY2XGp7QMzr2jnIiHWlcE_kkHyDJk6j3l5Eg4n7_MhKvGwi9lB6jRsBUZYjmoBVZG90yaRHu9FkpvaU/s320/St+Helena+and+the+Blue+Cat+web.jpg" width="237" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Saint Helena and the Blue Cat<br />
by Zoe Blue</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div>
<div>
When St. Helena (also Empress Helena) came upon Cyprus, it was in the midst of a serious drought. It was 327 AD, and the Holy Monastery of St. Nicholas was being built, but people were fleeing the island and its deadly heat and poisonous snake infestation. She solved the problem by ordering a ship filled with cats from Egypt and Palestine delivered to the island, and the cats went to work, doing their significant part to make Cyprus the beautiful island it is now--full of strays that everyone feeds and who have no problem hopping up to the empty seat at your table in a restaurant to see if they might like some of what you’re eating. The monks kept the cats on at the monastery, using a bell to dispatch them to snake hunting and also to call them in for a house meal. The monastery is now known as the Holy Monastery of Saint Nicholas of the Cats, but it houses cats and nuns now. </div>
<div>
The flower she carries is Sedum Anacampseros, the Evergreen Orpine, which according to Curtis’ botanical magazine “grows spontaneously in rock crevices.” Here, St. Helena brings life back to the island, astride her blue cat. The building in the back is part of a medieval church destroyed when Turkey began its occupation of the northern half of the island in 1974.</div>
<div>
This painting was by request, finished as a Christmas present (just in time, pant, pant). </div>
</div>
zoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16526746200112764467noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3841684678223214738.post-38177169120699152612013-12-11T11:37:00.000-08:002013-12-11T11:37:28.607-08:00Challenge: Puppetry<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhIUL2xO4lqIlol34jvM3RX0T425IzWzpkv84tFfPl9yP8X7aJOjYGN4z1MyACQqgeVMHvafqGI4uT0sR2xn-S06hhPW6ql_8yeRX_Zx0UPjS_B1xrNSbxN4pmhEcepVWaIST3FC_rgxg/s1600/Clive's+Mares+Tale+Puppets.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhIUL2xO4lqIlol34jvM3RX0T425IzWzpkv84tFfPl9yP8X7aJOjYGN4z1MyACQqgeVMHvafqGI4uT0sR2xn-S06hhPW6ql_8yeRX_Zx0UPjS_B1xrNSbxN4pmhEcepVWaIST3FC_rgxg/s320/Clive's+Mares+Tale+Puppets.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Clive Hicks-Jenkin's puppets for the 2013 performance of The Mare's Tale by Mid Wales Chamber Orchestra</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9JmGsVTndEfH6RouKSMyWt9BYUfaE4dwt6hu6wClwNTu9r2dxxt1v0Cos-v4JX3lBF_Mw06mBs6Z6fwFftsF31F46phlBwbQ9mBgKuG_CI8Nqmq7FP4ehSidpoWHUaOWTKOyIvEkQQLM/s1600/Clives+Mares+Tale.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9JmGsVTndEfH6RouKSMyWt9BYUfaE4dwt6hu6wClwNTu9r2dxxt1v0Cos-v4JX3lBF_Mw06mBs6Z6fwFftsF31F46phlBwbQ9mBgKuG_CI8Nqmq7FP4ehSidpoWHUaOWTKOyIvEkQQLM/s320/Clives+Mares+Tale.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">Clive Hicks-Jenkin's puppets for the 2013 performance of The Mare's Tale by Mid Wales Chamber Orchestra</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbOyHLFYo0ZLAjIL-fZno-ZHHUwa2USjH0GEDcXNSfjotGV6WXWoSJZAKeaIjTxuaj74soZlTxeFyUnJshU0kcnor6G28PrQOlWWpLx2aOrR2On7ip__AE-yyQTGv2kPG_TOih5gz6u1Y/s1600/Clives+Crazy+Stairs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbOyHLFYo0ZLAjIL-fZno-ZHHUwa2USjH0GEDcXNSfjotGV6WXWoSJZAKeaIjTxuaj74soZlTxeFyUnJshU0kcnor6G28PrQOlWWpLx2aOrR2On7ip__AE-yyQTGv2kPG_TOih5gz6u1Y/s320/Clives+Crazy+Stairs.jpg" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">Clive Hicks-Jenkin's Expressionist Stair-Set for the 2013 performance of The Mare's Tale by Mid Wales Chamber Orchestra</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<br />
Inspired by the astonishing emotional complexity of the interactions between Clive's puppets, his screen animations of 2D maquettes, and human actors and musicians in the 2013 performance of The Mare's Tale by the Mid Wales Chamber Orchestra, there has been an outpouring of interest in all things puppetry moving around the blogosphere. The fantastic result is a new challenge over at Clive's blog, calling all available hands to get building.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://clivehicksjenkins.wordpress.com/2013/11/26/20859/" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeUNwsnrMCQXRfDnOFR1wpEe9VMR8Ns11meo-uvDySgLeRTy94LEivqlThwLiEEK1Q7HofwVOjY6MJXbwj47l-MKi22DxzLHr1C8zYq_6DtVamD_4NYaRyz1XeaQmr5mGLNEhTAJY_kUM/s320/puppet-challenge-logo.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Logo created by Peter Slight, curator of the Puppet Challenge. Click for Link.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
In preparation for the challenge, to help with ideas and to underline the fact that there are many, very different styles and materials available to the new puppeteer, Clive has been posting (and will continue to do so) about great puppets both ancient and modern-- his site has become a veritable museum of delightful discoveries...<br />
<br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />
"The Chinese shadow-puppet tradition is said to date from the reign of the Emperor Wu in the Han Dynasty. When his favourite concubine died, he ordered his court officials to bring her back to life. An articulated ‘puppet’ in her likeness was made of donkey-skin, and the concubine was conjured for the Emperor by means of moving lamps projecting her puppet-shadow onto a screen." --Clive<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikojyuuPBDi11TRY_iIrfwXPi3wASp2gsaCqGnO8KEBc3gwRRvdFGHYZ_aThIyd37LAoYVaAR6lZCis9W0AeZhY-hZaX2W-Oa85gkuIEM7-2X7Dm6Jxth2rXj0z71r0y_Qi-qRKNSq274/s1600/Shadow+Puppet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikojyuuPBDi11TRY_iIrfwXPi3wASp2gsaCqGnO8KEBc3gwRRvdFGHYZ_aThIyd37LAoYVaAR6lZCis9W0AeZhY-hZaX2W-Oa85gkuIEM7-2X7Dm6Jxth2rXj0z71r0y_Qi-qRKNSq274/s320/Shadow+Puppet.jpg" width="203" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
"In the Javanese shadow-puppet tradition of Wayang Kulit, the word for the shadow-screen is Kelir, and just as the puppet-master is obscured from the audience by this fragile veil, it’s believed that the ‘mover of the world’, the Jagatkarana, is hidden from mortal sight by the screen that separates the planes of existence."--Clive<br />
<br />
He tells us that though they would only ever perform as shadows on a screen, great attention was given to the colors and decorations that were considered a gift of thanks and reverence to the shadow puppet itself:<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN-34nDvEO-v2a4yVNJYJO62EuTuqZ8n-1uYWgJaWTWH6P8aLnZscjL2-tJ1wylEt3L2U8C7y7hJWI8-9nVszhdvORQj5QPsCe3l-wTiuazyd2r7Jplf3iBHkVMcjcsNDlBgYM6FPSvzM/s1600/Shadow+Puppet+Painted+as+Gift+to+Puppet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN-34nDvEO-v2a4yVNJYJO62EuTuqZ8n-1uYWgJaWTWH6P8aLnZscjL2-tJ1wylEt3L2U8C7y7hJWI8-9nVszhdvORQj5QPsCe3l-wTiuazyd2r7Jplf3iBHkVMcjcsNDlBgYM6FPSvzM/s320/Shadow+Puppet+Painted+as+Gift+to+Puppet.jpg" width="281" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
Such shadow puppets would be a logical next step for those of us who took to the lessons on maquette- building from Clive <a href="http://clivehicksjenkins.wordpress.com/2011/09/01/making-a-maquette/" target="_blank">here</a>, and took part in the previous challenge and exhibition <a href="http://clivehicksjenkins.wordpress.com/2012/04/30/the-artlog-exhibition-of-maquettes-part-one/" target="_blank">here</a>. (Don't miss parts II and III, following that.)<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3SXRaAZA-4NU0Z4JauqWNQcAyealCNpaGunpPfA-qqmA89gocPfT6Jb2MK9kWfRFNGZm1rL4pq7STEB6QyakMad4tbTNEHHFArCUybIIPUw3ZJqEyftB6Fsv-42YENpleqL9qdwu2_lI/s1600/clives+mare.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3SXRaAZA-4NU0Z4JauqWNQcAyealCNpaGunpPfA-qqmA89gocPfT6Jb2MK9kWfRFNGZm1rL4pq7STEB6QyakMad4tbTNEHHFArCUybIIPUw3ZJqEyftB6Fsv-42YENpleqL9qdwu2_lI/s320/clives+mare.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mare Maquette created by Clive Hicks-Jenkins for On-Screen Animations during the Mare's Tale performance this year.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
But, for a more three-dimensional approach, there is also the possibility of a glove puppet, like Clive's Ogre:<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguStRj4ifQtQIbso-a6NV6G-LjwvRV2xATW2jeqg5SPvkZmW93_IJZGLKLBqnJ68CIqPbX0AW_lXIsa8GK9g2JTRTtMyk8VEe9zMKP8Z-_ucOpkQ9UyKEL3zMg2bkfGhnu0dujTkwcDZI/s1600/Clives+Ogre.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguStRj4ifQtQIbso-a6NV6G-LjwvRV2xATW2jeqg5SPvkZmW93_IJZGLKLBqnJ68CIqPbX0AW_lXIsa8GK9g2JTRTtMyk8VEe9zMKP8Z-_ucOpkQ9UyKEL3zMg2bkfGhnu0dujTkwcDZI/s320/Clives+Ogre.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ogre Glove Puppet by Clive Hicks-Jenkins</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
or like this Mr. Punch, by Julian Crouch:<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX92NFtFYLfKcxr48c9rsR_PoxL1fd3A6rNNwWXFDK1wUCmTLAviB98HfcA08HrqSHk4Ncogq1M2xdIDa0-kVxSm16R-SNQuktotfurXdOluM9lUm0XOhjWgcacTUW9sVHqcW6XZa-PVk/s1600/Julian+Crouch+Mr+Punch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX92NFtFYLfKcxr48c9rsR_PoxL1fd3A6rNNwWXFDK1wUCmTLAviB98HfcA08HrqSHk4Ncogq1M2xdIDa0-kVxSm16R-SNQuktotfurXdOluM9lUm0XOhjWgcacTUW9sVHqcW6XZa-PVk/s320/Julian+Crouch+Mr+Punch.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Julian Crouch and his Mr. Punch</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Then there are metal puppets, exemplified by the Theatre le Licorne's Spartacus set and crew:<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ07I9CISx0aiDnngroaXm3xPGQJaHj7ciL7yat1QKi8RsdPzyxBIhFl4fqlYr1rG-frIGcaLVDlD_jWonebfummzGO7TEzgnMSSb19CGytUCkhFklKDZARTy5eMwxsXRRqsSYmU6Gm3o/s1600/metal+boats+from+spartacuslicorne7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ07I9CISx0aiDnngroaXm3xPGQJaHj7ciL7yat1QKi8RsdPzyxBIhFl4fqlYr1rG-frIGcaLVDlD_jWonebfummzGO7TEzgnMSSb19CGytUCkhFklKDZARTy5eMwxsXRRqsSYmU6Gm3o/s320/metal+boats+from+spartacuslicorne7.jpg" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small; text-align: start;">Theatre le Licorne's Spartacus</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIGYo43arqSru00Z7qoALitQPhjPBEWgdg-qa-FsUQAb2fBt-Yug7QeVo1j89zlCrb-dnWilWQ8h3WWYod4bE-rWivbDbIMnF-Ze7D6coc8viZ4ebl82xZ8qbqbScAPKhelpFLLoMKWzQ/s1600/metal+puppets+of+theatre+la+licorne's+spartacus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIGYo43arqSru00Z7qoALitQPhjPBEWgdg-qa-FsUQAb2fBt-Yug7QeVo1j89zlCrb-dnWilWQ8h3WWYod4bE-rWivbDbIMnF-Ze7D6coc8viZ4ebl82xZ8qbqbScAPKhelpFLLoMKWzQ/s1600/metal+puppets+of+theatre+la+licorne's+spartacus.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small; text-align: start;">Theatre le Licorne's Spartacus</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY-XDt0Rwrm26gTBNyOuRDD9DsRZRGmXhrKNzSH54govaVbJHU4XLKrD1Ksjm0CKBzMgpN6xfV60rn-YI3At6956g9iZA4l-McUGitZn7muJ4f2lniBU03CSEf8z8XmV30MHNAj4revG8/s1600/metal+puppets+spartacuslicorne02_jpg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY-XDt0Rwrm26gTBNyOuRDD9DsRZRGmXhrKNzSH54govaVbJHU4XLKrD1Ksjm0CKBzMgpN6xfV60rn-YI3At6956g9iZA4l-McUGitZn7muJ4f2lniBU03CSEf8z8XmV30MHNAj4revG8/s320/metal+puppets+spartacuslicorne02_jpg.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small; text-align: start;">Theatre le Licorne's Spartacus</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
And then there is always, for the bravest among us, the inspiration offered by the puppets (and their puppeteers) of 69˚S, created by Erik Sanko and Jessica Grindstaff of <i><a href="http://vimeo.com/24811519" target="_blank">Phantom Limb</a></i>:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnEn2HsKAjtoEBD0gSxmw6rcJvVEJUlRmGlLZd6mBkA24N2-AOSdwDll67iAXfZYRUvCXi77326agw90Cj7RF7QHQ0LgBmQmWo6UI9hodnpl9ke7W94z6jP4dK1cemNjKPG4RRbxX7GbM/s1600/69s+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnEn2HsKAjtoEBD0gSxmw6rcJvVEJUlRmGlLZd6mBkA24N2-AOSdwDll67iAXfZYRUvCXi77326agw90Cj7RF7QHQ0LgBmQmWo6UI9hodnpl9ke7W94z6jP4dK1cemNjKPG4RRbxX7GbM/s320/69s+2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_SQ2xCVT5xZ3D6t5r2pNZ6nfcbRAMKzhOTUlCA6F2DeZQZfUBU7MUzse1YucucJ-kDDOiTPePEZVIXPUUgYpycWkFOTVgSu6qhepB7DN4klHfpmht2RydkHC4q6wpdeffvxu2rko6xOE/s1600/69s.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_SQ2xCVT5xZ3D6t5r2pNZ6nfcbRAMKzhOTUlCA6F2DeZQZfUBU7MUzse1YucucJ-kDDOiTPePEZVIXPUUgYpycWkFOTVgSu6qhepB7DN4klHfpmht2RydkHC4q6wpdeffvxu2rko6xOE/s320/69s.jpg" width="245" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
As with all projects on Clive's site, this one introduces you to all kinds of inspiration, both from him and from the comments boxes below his posts, where I discovered a new artist, <a href="http://www.jilldesborough.com/index.html" target="_blank">Jill Desborough</a>, also a puppeteer, among other things...<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD0K8QkWMWbHhPWwdBztSDMVmNBUtpZ3DnUlBFmiYdK8LQjXzn77qWmyZKoXvj6YXjTcM2z-jlBdL52yKIoj7dmWNU0iS9X5UgdlQSigdCHOzwlO_qmW7x9hoLCqiqnldDVzBFfw62Us8/s1600/Jill+DesBourough+Mrs+Thackeray.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD0K8QkWMWbHhPWwdBztSDMVmNBUtpZ3DnUlBFmiYdK8LQjXzn77qWmyZKoXvj6YXjTcM2z-jlBdL52yKIoj7dmWNU0iS9X5UgdlQSigdCHOzwlO_qmW7x9hoLCqiqnldDVzBFfw62Us8/s320/Jill+DesBourough+Mrs+Thackeray.png" width="228" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mrs. Thackery, by Jill Desborough</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGn5Jpn_DS_pto0PHB0JyTuU7oRWk7fh8nGN-09lC68-BnXFcrLWzWQteo55On078vC3eTJ9kJR5kGiS4dTqsFzIUhOyjKINjodBO4B3SByKb7O37Dfmnc3Jckmtaf-5aQYp62lIxDRFY/s1600/Jill+Desborough+mrs+pincher.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGn5Jpn_DS_pto0PHB0JyTuU7oRWk7fh8nGN-09lC68-BnXFcrLWzWQteo55On078vC3eTJ9kJR5kGiS4dTqsFzIUhOyjKINjodBO4B3SByKb7O37Dfmnc3Jckmtaf-5aQYp62lIxDRFY/s320/Jill+Desborough+mrs+pincher.png" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mrs. Pincher, by Jill Desborough</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZO1sfhzMevJiO9OJCHaEkedd2A20mGmMA-nVRHLCvdt9KRnzY6bvpzD6oRQXTZ8tFBN7HuF0wQ6y3gPsPlsV0278RSy4KcTDp-K5xCrVV7LvNofgUIxYHfgctpiOM80nMZuupGsg_Irg/s1600/Jill+Desborough+the+Crow.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZO1sfhzMevJiO9OJCHaEkedd2A20mGmMA-nVRHLCvdt9KRnzY6bvpzD6oRQXTZ8tFBN7HuF0wQ6y3gPsPlsV0278RSy4KcTDp-K5xCrVV7LvNofgUIxYHfgctpiOM80nMZuupGsg_Irg/s320/Jill+Desborough+the+Crow.png" width="248" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Crow by Jill Desborough</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br />
It caught my eye that she also had created an etching and aquatint Anatomical Alphabet, which was another challenge put together on Clive's site <a href="http://clivehicksjenkins.wordpress.com/2012/12/16/alphabet-soup-the-first-course-outdoors-and-in-stephanie-redfern-and-philippa-robbins/" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRXNAVcuQY6ykEDBRZlTTYKpnkO6PPx0ZRxRC0FLp262qYsWXkluKS8GzvvIcYAmswMi5JrsOSBJH4uVXCPtVFX7DfY2fb4eoWV9eIbCDkraUBuQQKt0tqVl4GvRH2jFgV7nIHtTHDbQI/s1600/Jill+Desborough+A+is+for+Articulated.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRXNAVcuQY6ykEDBRZlTTYKpnkO6PPx0ZRxRC0FLp262qYsWXkluKS8GzvvIcYAmswMi5JrsOSBJH4uVXCPtVFX7DfY2fb4eoWV9eIbCDkraUBuQQKt0tqVl4GvRH2jFgV7nIHtTHDbQI/s320/Jill+Desborough+A+is+for+Articulated.png" width="252" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A is for Articulated, by Jill Desborough</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHykhqmdtRHO-Bti3Xc5VQsQsxIxrHDvJA8xTDZwL346h1sJw3br5oGkJAnV0JpcycHA2vmP0evNuEql14jdyPRVGFmZMIx4SWIYNM3k2LTPu9p7IbREtnZv5wRK-sJBtuqiCEnmktBSc/s1600/Jill+Desborough+C+is+for+Codpiece.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHykhqmdtRHO-Bti3Xc5VQsQsxIxrHDvJA8xTDZwL346h1sJw3br5oGkJAnV0JpcycHA2vmP0evNuEql14jdyPRVGFmZMIx4SWIYNM3k2LTPu9p7IbREtnZv5wRK-sJBtuqiCEnmktBSc/s320/Jill+Desborough+C+is+for+Codpiece.png" width="250" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">C is for Codpiece by Jill Desborough</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I love the way she draws out the letter in unexpected details...<br />
<div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivC2OhFys-UzZ0rLMJk_rX0PQQp3zkbauHoCAm5uU0v3GlNKINvVMwM41exOeYy2g9TbWluv-S23wnOaELhXzYr5bqJCI96BZLYxFNY844XYyLprYiQH-KmQH6_xCeN9rlwnpBBzMZjDc/s1600/Jill+Desborough+O+is+for+Ornamented.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivC2OhFys-UzZ0rLMJk_rX0PQQp3zkbauHoCAm5uU0v3GlNKINvVMwM41exOeYy2g9TbWluv-S23wnOaELhXzYr5bqJCI96BZLYxFNY844XYyLprYiQH-KmQH6_xCeN9rlwnpBBzMZjDc/s320/Jill+Desborough+O+is+for+Ornamented.png" width="253" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">O is for Ornamented by Jill Desborough</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnXgg8UqABlfoxUl_rQ7sLHMlZDR5cdX3Jb7fcF4U3cr_10pZRayolcM7kM7bjTWMCqFCyPrb__rX0PPiVAg8ZRVDVYcgNcwSsjJ4qEn-vtZI6dNt_FsgEclMDEYv_qBXtxxJ2LEfrov0/s1600/Jill+Desboroush+E+is+for+Eyes.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnXgg8UqABlfoxUl_rQ7sLHMlZDR5cdX3Jb7fcF4U3cr_10pZRayolcM7kM7bjTWMCqFCyPrb__rX0PPiVAg8ZRVDVYcgNcwSsjJ4qEn-vtZI6dNt_FsgEclMDEYv_qBXtxxJ2LEfrov0/s320/Jill+Desboroush+E+is+for+Eyes.png" width="256" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">E is for Eyes by Jill Desborough</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
And she also has this lovely Trojan Horse Statue:<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPN1Hgw_tWx5d7jMiRv5swUmrzYa2_6MCj1iFF3x1Nn6ybFxsdbLZ_mKX15YjxJl-y6BRGShuYQBMAjV-vFS7rrnHm-pMHpKcem8De4fk7w8501YXI0Umk0nrPRaced0AfzUnIRnPJfhY/s1600/Jill+Desborough+Into+the+City+TWO.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="289" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPN1Hgw_tWx5d7jMiRv5swUmrzYa2_6MCj1iFF3x1Nn6ybFxsdbLZ_mKX15YjxJl-y6BRGShuYQBMAjV-vFS7rrnHm-pMHpKcem8De4fk7w8501YXI0Umk0nrPRaced0AfzUnIRnPJfhY/s320/Jill+Desborough+Into+the+City+TWO.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Into the City by Jill Desborough</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicWuVOF0dDVLnsz8vbhjzUSma33dhP3ojLH0m_u7lz4hyz2eUO-62x0Wkqfr_mGaBGUlYjiJOuBXALKp_nFwG-1MUN-RIDgqmNvaY3F7lN-ERQCexdTbOJxZj_S-oCzDa-v5RTJz1iCj8/s1600/Jill+Desborough+intothecity1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="249" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicWuVOF0dDVLnsz8vbhjzUSma33dhP3ojLH0m_u7lz4hyz2eUO-62x0Wkqfr_mGaBGUlYjiJOuBXALKp_nFwG-1MUN-RIDgqmNvaY3F7lN-ERQCexdTbOJxZj_S-oCzDa-v5RTJz1iCj8/s320/Jill+Desborough+intothecity1.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Into the City by Jill Desborough</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div>
As contributors sign up for the challenge, I am discovering a slew of new artists...<br />
<br />
There's <a href="http://www.rachellarkins.com/gallery.html" target="_blank">Rachel Larkins</a>, who creates lovely automata:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1z4xrOU6vTHz7dDJfvSmjXY4Y0p3egRd-CmfSiw8FJ960XMhh7F6zgaQO4csNADg3kQdIIfzjNxOFe6I1_BISmZpPcaCmSCzWhQR3xS8xN0HRd6jiZG_5uLtBn8lfZqCvvPYS1D0dUXI/s1600/rachel+larkins+automaton.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1z4xrOU6vTHz7dDJfvSmjXY4Y0p3egRd-CmfSiw8FJ960XMhh7F6zgaQO4csNADg3kQdIIfzjNxOFe6I1_BISmZpPcaCmSCzWhQR3xS8xN0HRd6jiZG_5uLtBn8lfZqCvvPYS1D0dUXI/s320/rachel+larkins+automaton.jpg" width="233" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Automaton by Rachel Larkins. The mirror shows the back side of the doll.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR9daTUlzZ5eKouNKXbdtsrc4OULXVwgkBFdaaB6krhewMw4cm317j5GAFeksrhdRov0v6DqBlqDMrR4OR5QELLSfta7nlTMWCwHTgfcuaNHexxh1RZvqgzAOVMqh3YsP5YHrbcQb2MVQ/s1600/rachel+larkins+puppet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR9daTUlzZ5eKouNKXbdtsrc4OULXVwgkBFdaaB6krhewMw4cm317j5GAFeksrhdRov0v6DqBlqDMrR4OR5QELLSfta7nlTMWCwHTgfcuaNHexxh1RZvqgzAOVMqh3YsP5YHrbcQb2MVQ/s320/rachel+larkins+puppet.jpg" width="229" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Design sheet and Automaton by Rachel Larkins</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
...here in action:<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/-ZFXY0ad4u0" width="420"></iframe>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/ewJSZsQPqfA" width="420"></iframe>
<br /></div>
<div>
There are the strange and miraculous creations of <a href="http://khushushban.blogspot.co.uk/" target="_blank">Hussam Elsherif</a>:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv6Mbjw05eYa_BATCfkGZRRwSTMQbUYa3YCeTEGSn8m9rt4g9XFB49ovMZLv9jHNhCa2TrUfZRJx_G8ELhXD9oAvM0mYsLbaFywBl_GaYhlceCJzrwplwb3bI0sSBE2bvbMr3fVdZpVqs/s1600/s+Karneta+khushushban.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv6Mbjw05eYa_BATCfkGZRRwSTMQbUYa3YCeTEGSn8m9rt4g9XFB49ovMZLv9jHNhCa2TrUfZRJx_G8ELhXD9oAvM0mYsLbaFywBl_GaYhlceCJzrwplwb3bI0sSBE2bvbMr3fVdZpVqs/s320/s+Karneta+khushushban.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">by Hussam Elsherif</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpKcd5LEXQ5I8-jzwFE1B1H-A_eIFqbfDJy6v5QbBbUxtoHC1Kp0mO8TwuZ7Pm7Z3Jy0xC35wYlYj7ivJG6ow8a2bzeRor1Og-tKrNacdQA8vgOO3Dy9YudnrI4K0wFtYypMc5gOZlmz8/s1600/Shemu+EGG+khushushban.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpKcd5LEXQ5I8-jzwFE1B1H-A_eIFqbfDJy6v5QbBbUxtoHC1Kp0mO8TwuZ7Pm7Z3Jy0xC35wYlYj7ivJG6ow8a2bzeRor1Og-tKrNacdQA8vgOO3Dy9YudnrI4K0wFtYypMc5gOZlmz8/s1600/Shemu+EGG+khushushban.png" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">by Hussam Elsherif</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh01XX9iw-gn6xGUKtb0PLxyGvIrmOB6kObXQEQ_CueSsRUJhib_hs5LSQogMg_Cs_VSOWYeLBn4GvJYVw_Y6TIHb1TbogvSNSpJXCR121h0oDi20jSBM0fTsX6sjckOLuWbdsZztO8kOk/s1600/The+Wind+khushushban.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="210" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh01XX9iw-gn6xGUKtb0PLxyGvIrmOB6kObXQEQ_CueSsRUJhib_hs5LSQogMg_Cs_VSOWYeLBn4GvJYVw_Y6TIHb1TbogvSNSpJXCR121h0oDi20jSBM0fTsX6sjckOLuWbdsZztO8kOk/s320/The+Wind+khushushban.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">by Hussam Elsherif</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
And there are the illuminations of <a href="http://www.stuartkolakovic.co.uk/hermaninclusus.html" target="_blank">Stuart Kolakovic</a>:<br />
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi57ypOv0IdnZN968e8tu0UOLvyhBsErSAV_Tfq38qFvlw2LCvVusnt8oQdUZNRMuUnWAnlWu8IS7LOU9qmNB7mIlwbSo_239Ye9-2auIMjqizS_MQp5298zy9AAytxf6wQy_cj1v7hQnk/s1600/Death+of+King+Arthur+Detail+Kolakovic-11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi57ypOv0IdnZN968e8tu0UOLvyhBsErSAV_Tfq38qFvlw2LCvVusnt8oQdUZNRMuUnWAnlWu8IS7LOU9qmNB7mIlwbSo_239Ye9-2auIMjqizS_MQp5298zy9AAytxf6wQy_cj1v7hQnk/s320/Death+of+King+Arthur+Detail+Kolakovic-11.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Detail from the Death of King Arthur, by Stuart Kolakovic</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWQlzwANioIV3NCb4rO8HbJJdglytHTJ_u_ng4Mtq8aI9U1crscvT9Ww1VOinhAneLHLxevaxNFKEmzlJXMtWOTictK9t2JiCru7k_ItfqMsgXQ4XYunDwUGxD-McPJ3xUPiixLbyZDwI/s1600/Wenceslas+2Kolakovic-5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWQlzwANioIV3NCb4rO8HbJJdglytHTJ_u_ng4Mtq8aI9U1crscvT9Ww1VOinhAneLHLxevaxNFKEmzlJXMtWOTictK9t2JiCru7k_ItfqMsgXQ4XYunDwUGxD-McPJ3xUPiixLbyZDwI/s1600/Wenceslas+2Kolakovic-5.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wenceslas, by Stuart Kolakovic </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrH4jGETxFgV4VPfKnkBseDp4eUtrMGbeP3uaVZ5MX_9CjTiwIzi5LZ9ROeFhAHCOBKw1dh1EmkhPewe6sMcK2trxEehSNq9cQjFTX12_usvLT0pAis_VQq2dXnS7zyxvzNc3F0uIPaXw/s1600/Wenceslas+Kolakovic-7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrH4jGETxFgV4VPfKnkBseDp4eUtrMGbeP3uaVZ5MX_9CjTiwIzi5LZ9ROeFhAHCOBKw1dh1EmkhPewe6sMcK2trxEehSNq9cQjFTX12_usvLT0pAis_VQq2dXnS7zyxvzNc3F0uIPaXw/s320/Wenceslas+Kolakovic-7.jpg" width="283" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wenceslas, by Stuart Kolakovic</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<br /><br /><br /><br />
<br /></div>
<div>
<br />
....and there are many other wondrous artists I have met before there--<a href="http://clivehicksjenkins.wordpress.com/2013/12/09/puppet-challenge-at-the-artlog-part-1-the-contributors-so-far/" target="_blank">go</a> and <a href="http://clivehicksjenkins.wordpress.com/2013/12/09/puppet-challenge-at-the-artlog-part-2-the-contributors-so-far/" target="_blank">see</a>, and take up the challenge!!<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
zoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16526746200112764467noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3841684678223214738.post-9177223581781764722013-11-15T12:04:00.000-08:002013-11-15T12:04:40.890-08:00Don't Wait<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU_HCAsew4Gq8PMd6Q_f0JzeAgCgye9byWUgB9r1GwZCAYcFhH6Whiy_ap4oKXg-HszI0uZfDEq3WV_SFfLAe3rzv8wILIB3XhsSzyR0rUUlTzLh3swm-YBPmrpX-Yh-faMsqZlVdO9Ik/s1600/GIANTS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU_HCAsew4Gq8PMd6Q_f0JzeAgCgye9byWUgB9r1GwZCAYcFhH6Whiy_ap4oKXg-HszI0uZfDEq3WV_SFfLAe3rzv8wILIB3XhsSzyR0rUUlTzLh3swm-YBPmrpX-Yh-faMsqZlVdO9Ik/s320/GIANTS.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.france-voyage.com/travel-photos/view-ferdinand-cheval-ideal-palace-4956.htm" target="_blank">Via</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
In 1879, a postman in Southern France, Ferdinand Cheval, picked up a stone somewhere along his route and made a decision to build a castle. He had no training at all.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTAR7s2cmbFlI4Dlqp6JffsWiyJXTOi2Gy_BmTVj1Git5MLpLeW2DjFuK7Af_83q_-j1FrN9o-NwLdESeSAKmdeKQm5DtMhMu-auj1yXbVEDiizrey4TzHJoXf6KyLc89Zby-GcY7XP6Y/s1600/Le_Palais_Ide%CC%81al_-_Face_sud.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTAR7s2cmbFlI4Dlqp6JffsWiyJXTOi2Gy_BmTVj1Git5MLpLeW2DjFuK7Af_83q_-j1FrN9o-NwLdESeSAKmdeKQm5DtMhMu-auj1yXbVEDiizrey4TzHJoXf6KyLc89Zby-GcY7XP6Y/s320/Le_Palais_Ide%CC%81al_-_Face_sud.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
"I was walking very fast when my foot caught on something that sent me stumbling a few meters away, I wanted to know the cause. In a dream I had built a palace, a castle or caves, I cannot express it well... I told no one about it for fear of being ridiculed and I felt ridiculous myself. Then fifteen years later, when I had almost forgotten my dream, when I wasn't thinking of it at all, my foot reminded me of it. My foot tripped on a stone that almost made me fall. I wanted to know what it was... It was a stone of such a strange shape that I put it in my pocket to admire it at my ease. The next day, I went back to the same place. I found more stones, even more beautiful, I gathered them together on the spot and was overcome with delight... It's a sandstone shaped by water and hardened by the power of time. It becomes as hard as pebbles. It represents a sculpture so strange that it is impossible for man to imitate, it represents any kind of animal, any kind of caricature."<br />
"I said to myself: since Nature is willing to do the sculpture, I will do the masonry and the architecture." ( Becker, Howard S. Art Worlds)<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwFyBmGuDkTvD7ogHy-P4jK28wxMIpJwv3MhLIEPBxTXfZ0SYdBKOOwKCSoFWHgG4E_TVusoGYeypEStdDl0jEIV1ruk5DZmR01UHzGe-uFhVX0cg3xEKAbEzcNi-lbqJeEFT6LSmja34/s1600/Facteur_Cheval_-_Pierre_d_achoppement.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwFyBmGuDkTvD7ogHy-P4jK28wxMIpJwv3MhLIEPBxTXfZ0SYdBKOOwKCSoFWHgG4E_TVusoGYeypEStdDl0jEIV1ruk5DZmR01UHzGe-uFhVX0cg3xEKAbEzcNi-lbqJeEFT6LSmja34/s320/Facteur_Cheval_-_Pierre_d_achoppement.jpg" width="264" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The non-offending first stone</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
He carried stones in his pockets, then began to use a wheelbarrow on his route, picking up whatever caught his eye.<br />
The castle is 85 feet long and stretches from 26-32 feet high.<br />
"You start wondering," the facteur wrote, "if you have not been carried away into a fantastic dream with boundaries beyond the scope of imagination."" (New York Times, Mary Blume, May 3, 2007)<br />
<br />
He ignored ridicule; he ignored the fact that he had no training. He dreamt of building a palace, and so he did. Stone by stone. It took him 33 years.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjpEEoIh-UEoaru48NKQ5qbPLSSFzdIV0cTPsZYD_QbUCuE1v3ZcvymMC1a3L7EO2x-sToBCiiV-uQ-jMmkRBML_SsiuzeHOeD7HszdOQoJZeo9-sL0zOJeMAaoL0s4mShblD6iL7pCvc/s1600/IDEAL-PALACE-FRANCE.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjpEEoIh-UEoaru48NKQ5qbPLSSFzdIV0cTPsZYD_QbUCuE1v3ZcvymMC1a3L7EO2x-sToBCiiV-uQ-jMmkRBML_SsiuzeHOeD7HszdOQoJZeo9-sL0zOJeMAaoL0s4mShblD6iL7pCvc/s320/IDEAL-PALACE-FRANCE.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.tripcentral.ca/blog/7-weirdest-buildings/" target="_blank">Via</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPcEnc6ygWIuRIu-s8V4dKMIIoBdnmyGJCzKqO88Eco8VocYwGymgcAjuuvXZPFMD2hF3MxmLLEOP4TsACv8HFRWYpEa5e7MxdK0_gJXb3bwufXwUgtjxWYkT_qXeCDnwdANEP79Ia2Vg/s1600/Facteur_Cheval_-_Temple_hindou.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPcEnc6ygWIuRIu-s8V4dKMIIoBdnmyGJCzKqO88Eco8VocYwGymgcAjuuvXZPFMD2hF3MxmLLEOP4TsACv8HFRWYpEa5e7MxdK0_gJXb3bwufXwUgtjxWYkT_qXeCDnwdANEP79Ia2Vg/s320/Facteur_Cheval_-_Temple_hindou.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Via Wikipedia</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
zoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16526746200112764467noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3841684678223214738.post-64872399173876134312013-11-01T12:49:00.000-07:002014-02-07T10:25:18.249-08:00Ewa Erzulie<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEDyxagG0XTtxyHUazCsUZOqB0EQMpuCXH1I-k4EQqux3f8MJAR0rJdJf45Zm_ycjpMMnxlDT3mVLvyZGZV-9S7F7x88LDASVPirnVKNwyDXUl0LNlcdTFNZcO8G_sftJbivAIVkarm5g/s1600/EWA+final+for+Web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Ewa and the Green Lion by zoe blue" border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEDyxagG0XTtxyHUazCsUZOqB0EQMpuCXH1I-k4EQqux3f8MJAR0rJdJf45Zm_ycjpMMnxlDT3mVLvyZGZV-9S7F7x88LDASVPirnVKNwyDXUl0LNlcdTFNZcO8G_sftJbivAIVkarm5g/s400/EWA+final+for+Web.jpg" title="Ewa and the Green Lion by zoe blue" width="297" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ewa and the Green Lion by zoe blue<br />18x24 acrylic on panel</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
One of the most striking aspects of the traditions surrounding the devotions to Erzulie is that they always end with her weeping. Erzulie is lovely, beautiful, and she has the adoration of all men, yet she does not strike hateful jealousy in the women, because of her child-like innocence. She induces wonder and care, she is like a child. And, though she begins all celebrations in her honor filled with giddiness and pleasure at the excess of beautiful and expensive things that are always lavished on her parties, she slowly grows sad, accusing the people of not honoring her enough, not giving her enough, not loving her enough. In Maya Deren's book The Divine Horsemen, she suggests that this is just another aspect of her child-like behavior (along with an "impatience with economies, with calculation, even with careful evaluation" 139), that you cannot give a child enough attention to satiate its need, and that those present at the devotions understand this and soothe her. I feel, however, that perhaps Erzulie is right. We do not devote enough of our attentions to child-like wonder, to endless and all-enveloping love--if we did, the world would be a much different place. In Candomblé Ketu, Ewá represents the water element, and is the goddess of enchantment, beauty, and harmony. Like Erzulie, in the related Voodoo pantheon, she is universally loved and loving and "represents all that is fragile and sensitive." According to Morwyn, in Magic from Brazil, "Euá was so beautiful that men would fight to the death to possess her. In order to stop the carnage she changed herself into a puddle of water that evaporated to the sky, condensed into a cloud, and fell as rain. Thus she is known as the deity of transformation."<br />
Here, I am fusing the two water divinities, hoping for a major transformation such as the one Erzulie begs for, one in which I no longer need to mess with stupidities like balancing my checkbook, for example...<br />
The story of Erzulie, the story of Ewá, also reminds me of the Chinese bodhisattva Guan Yin, who also caused a massive transformation, defeating violence: during an unjust and forced visit to the Underworld, she was so overwhelmed with compassion for the souls which suffered untold tortures there, her very love transformed that hell into a paradise. She changed, simply by being full of compassion, the very order of things (something to think about the next time someone calls you a naive utopian). She is, like Ewá and Erzulie, the patroness of mothers and of sailors, and she can be called upon to bring rain.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhqLzpXRhS9rUOblmHzwHy2XqedNDLLQZWPRCJ-EvR4Uqk4Eaq6AQ_lPi8LHY5p9yie-4itIkORiJgtQUB6SE0mFUyq2h9VVXzEMFO0nhzLnUF9D4kf-5CltQjzYfBvpkcGdJO-EyqKys/s1600/Birds+for+web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="detail of ewa and the green lion by zoe blue" border="0" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhqLzpXRhS9rUOblmHzwHy2XqedNDLLQZWPRCJ-EvR4Uqk4Eaq6AQ_lPi8LHY5p9yie-4itIkORiJgtQUB6SE0mFUyq2h9VVXzEMFO0nhzLnUF9D4kf-5CltQjzYfBvpkcGdJO-EyqKys/s320/Birds+for+web.jpg" title="Detail of Ewa and the Green Lion by zoe blue" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">detail of Ewa and the Green Lion</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Alchemists, the precursors to our modern chemists, also strove for major transformation. The endless writings on the steps necessary to transmute base metals into gold are thought by some to have been mere code for a higher transmutation, an internal transmutation, in which the base form of the self becomes light, reaches higher consciousness. Alchemists sought to create an elixir of healing and eternal life, and one of the code names for that ultimate elixir was "the remedy of the green lion."<br />
<br />
Here, Erzulie-Ewa is caught in mid-transformation at the base of Legba's tree, her hair feathering out into bird's wings and her torso spilling to the ground. The green lion frolics in the water.zoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16526746200112764467noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3841684678223214738.post-23768250205559203022013-10-25T06:46:00.001-07:002013-10-25T06:47:01.945-07:00Half-Sick of Shadows<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="220" mozallowfullscreen="" src="//player.vimeo.com/video/69144669" webkitallowfullscreen="" width="400"></iframe> <br />
<a href="http://vimeo.com/69144669">The Parlour Trick: "Half Sick of Shadows" (Starring Rachel Brice)</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/meredithyayanos">Theremina</a> on <a href="https://vimeo.com/">Vimeo</a>.<br />
<br />
Sorry, I have been ill, but woke up to this and had to share. :)zoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16526746200112764467noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3841684678223214738.post-27624017657607478592013-10-01T07:18:00.003-07:002013-10-01T09:29:32.698-07:00Leonora Carrington: Liminal Spaces<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju6SJ0-M88m1u7KzQyM74UyBEw5V7UNqvgF8fty9TFqHNeixTnCthX-TbpuWyqzpBYsixDCLqLeWWj5RjjE1ULI9DZ8M-xUwL1-o-a7emP1Ew2yPTJQ4N0fF3-nxPD90351RJjCud7NbI/s1600/Who+Art+Thou+White+Face+Leonora+Carrington.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="292" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju6SJ0-M88m1u7KzQyM74UyBEw5V7UNqvgF8fty9TFqHNeixTnCthX-TbpuWyqzpBYsixDCLqLeWWj5RjjE1ULI9DZ8M-xUwL1-o-a7emP1Ew2yPTJQ4N0fF3-nxPD90351RJjCud7NbI/s400/Who+Art+Thou+White+Face+Leonora+Carrington.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Who art thou, White Face?</i> by Leonora Carrington<br />
image taken from<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1848220561?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creativeASIN=1848220561&linkCode=xm2&tag=zoeinwonderla-20" target="_blank"> <u>Leonora Carrington: Surrealism, Alchemy and Art</u></a> by Susan L Aberth<br />
PRESS for larger image</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><b>“the real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes but in having new eyes” — marcel proust </b></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<br />
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1">The paintings of Leonora Carrington are filled with odd creatures in the midst of ritualistic activities and unusual interactions. Their intense colors and inherent strangeness bring you to the mindset of a dream, and they offer a doorway outside of your own world, the usual time and space. She draws you into a liminal space: the in-between, the not-quite-real, but somehow almost recognizable. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiggbWN1_vvCzY8-YqHFdR2aYgou8fJfF37MWftomJU7yE4ofEiPTt1uXbdGaRrELvG0AzpWqA_KawaxQ_GS2Hb0gV1CBLoi9VxT_JfIFeECjspijL-gbLhrr7mWAxSUb9QRzKtFGoxMrU/s1600/The+Floor+4706th.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiggbWN1_vvCzY8-YqHFdR2aYgou8fJfF37MWftomJU7yE4ofEiPTt1uXbdGaRrELvG0AzpWqA_KawaxQ_GS2Hb0gV1CBLoi9VxT_JfIFeECjspijL-gbLhrr7mWAxSUb9QRzKtFGoxMrU/s400/The+Floor+4706th.jpg" width="385" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><i>The Floor 4706th</i>, by Leonora Carrington</span></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1">
</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">In <i>The Floor 4706th</i>, </span>four tall, white, yellow-eyed dogs, three with swords serving as pseudo-unicorn horns, stand at the threshold of a doorway. They appear to be trying to leave the wrong way, pressing towards the edge of the door instead of passing easily through it. But we can see, inside that edge, a ghostly horse and shadowy rider. Above them, a transparent, full moon hangs, and behind them, a small bath of water is receiving its blessing, the stars and sun just lining up to transform it into something more than water. Birds, also not completely incarnated in the dogs’ universe, sail by, somehow below the floor. Two worlds are present here, overlapping. Will the dogs press through, cross the wormhole whose presence they have somehow divined? What will that mean for them? What does it mean for us? Who are the dogs?</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnQn6VP3Asnq0cnGpscNEQ7VTrgfw4dAhlwPA_eNMhXbVEiTElJjqtU3TJe6mMtcnQL7TE7XUyzBs1VDZ0MX44ZEbvqN-3CjnPgvDQsB_DDr3mdQH_WznweA8gCxk4qjziD2AC6qzF22k/s1600/Leonora-Carrington-Neighborly-Advice-1947.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnQn6VP3Asnq0cnGpscNEQ7VTrgfw4dAhlwPA_eNMhXbVEiTElJjqtU3TJe6mMtcnQL7TE7XUyzBs1VDZ0MX44ZEbvqN-3CjnPgvDQsB_DDr3mdQH_WznweA8gCxk4qjziD2AC6qzF22k/s400/Leonora-Carrington-Neighborly-Advice-1947.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Neighborly Advice</i>, by Leonora Carrington</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Memories can overlap in space like this; for example in <i>Neighborly Advice</i>, a hall much like the one in the grand house Leonora grew up in shows (perhaps) a game of hide-and-seek. Behind it, upstairs, there are many more characters in the midst of games and activities, all ghosted in white: are these the memories of the house? Are they the memories of the young mother? Of her neighbor? The scene recalls a comment made by Marian Leatherby in t</span><span class="s2">he <u><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1878972197?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creativeASIN=1878972197&linkCode=xm2&tag=zoeinwonderla-20" target="_blank">Hearing Trumpet</a></u></span><span class="s1">: </span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span class="s1">“You may not believe in magic but something very strange is happening at </span>this very moment. Your head has dissolved into thin air and I can see the rhododendrons through your stomach. It’s not that you are dead or anything dramatic like that, it is simply that you are fading away and I can’t even remember your name. I remember your white flannels better than I can remember you. I remember all the things I felt about the white flannels but whoever made them walk about has totally disappeared. So you remember me as a pink linen dress with no sleeves and my face is confused with dozens of other faces, I have no name either.” </blockquote>
<div class="p1">
There, too, the thing remembered is overlaid onto the scene in front of her.</div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Another possibility as to what the dogs are sensing (and it’s important to notice that it’s dogs that are sensing it--they have different senses than we do, more on that later), of course, is what we call a haunting, where one activity from long ago or far into the future suddenly somehow becomes visible to us in our time--why? how? What were we doing at that moment that they were also doing, or feeling that they were also feeling? What parallel emotion or action linked us? Maybe this is the thin skin dividing parallel universes which we could also define as worlds of alien entities--</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRFdvyEYQpATXjFQB1ExJX6tRxNNl-_-0jzQycz55Dv0hKF7wT7B3eJJwAqN53_M7FF9JOO7X7Csj9keMBdayUPYimJACQcRzswdlMo3FbDol0hQySs7uBYqlEHQ1EzSCQPVkAzTBKZMI/s1600/Friday+the+13th+Leonora+Carrington.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRFdvyEYQpATXjFQB1ExJX6tRxNNl-_-0jzQycz55Dv0hKF7wT7B3eJJwAqN53_M7FF9JOO7X7Csj9keMBdayUPYimJACQcRzswdlMo3FbDol0hQySs7uBYqlEHQ1EzSCQPVkAzTBKZMI/s400/Friday+the+13th+Leonora+Carrington.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Friday the 13th</i>, by Leonora Carrington<br />
taken from <u><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1848220561?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creativeASIN=1848220561&linkCode=xm2&tag=zoeinwonderla-20" target="_blank">Leonora Carrington: Surrealism, Alchemy and Art</a></u> by Susan L Aberth</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">In her <i>Friday the 13th</i> music is what brings about the overlap between two “worlds.” Here, the other world is portrayed as distinctly “alien,” with the associated symbolic vocabulary of a spaceship (though with Carrington’s very own design, it’s true...). The spaceship has landed before the performance of a small band of musicians, who continue to play as if perhaps this is just what happens when they get together. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">What if perception has a ‘key,’ a timbre, a resonating note? Carrington and Varo both studied the ideas of Gurdjieff, who apparently had a theory about musical octaves and reality (which I have not read yet); have these musicians tuned themselves to a frequency which allows two perceptual fields to resonate in unison, thus allowing one “world” to see another? Could it also have to do with ‘timing’-- beings from each world resonating at the same time, in rhythm, even, so that the same note is hit simultaneously? </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">In <i>Ikon</i>, the same sense of liminality is expressed via shadows: you see the posed hand, the bald head, the head of the winged dog, all in solid colored form and all repeated once more--perhaps those are shadows, but perhaps instead they are patterns: the world expecting the act, or the act fitting into its space in the world. In that sense the title, <i>Ikon</i>, takes on extra significance.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">
</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">II. What is the point of taking you into these liminal zones?</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">
</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">In </span><span class="s2"><u><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/159030957X?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creativeASIN=159030957X&linkCode=xm2&tag=zoeinwonderla-20" target="_blank">Dreaming Yourself Awake</a></u></span><span class="s1">, Alan Wallace explains the significance of working from within this liminal state in order to effect changes in the waking, ‘real’ world, by explaining the Buddhist philosophy that the waking world is actually just another level of dreaming, but one on which it is much harder to make physical alterations. He suggests that by focusing on how you can make alterations while lucidly dreaming, you can enact similarly-themed changes while awake. Your body learns its perceptive power. The idea of the powers of the mind to alter reality was very present in Leonora’s thinking; one excellent example is expressed in </span><span class="s2">Down Below</span><span class="s1">, a short autobiographical story she wrote detailing her flight from Saint-Martin, where she had experienced an idyllic life with Max Ernst before his internment in a concentration camp, and the flight’s sudden interruption by her incarceration in a madhouse in Spain:</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">
</span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span class="s1">“In Saint-Martin next morning, the school mistress gave me papers stamped by the town hall, which made it possible for us to depart. Catherine got the car ready. All my willpower strained towards that departure. I hurried my friends. I pushed Catherine toward the car; she took the wheel; I sat between her and Michel. The car started. I was confident in the success of the journey, but terribly anguished, fearing difficulties which I thought inevitable. We were riding normally when, twenty kilometres beyond Saint-Martin, the car stopped; the brakes had jammed. I heard Catherine say: “The brakes have jammed.” ‘Jammed!’ I, too, was jammed within, by forces foreign to my conscious will, which were also paralyzing the mechanism of the car. This was the first state of my identification with the external world. I was the car. The car had jammed on account of me, because I, too, was jammed between Saint-Martin and Spain. I was horrified by my own power. At that time, I was still limited to my own solar system, and was not aware of other people’s systems, the importance of which I realize now.” 167, </span><span class="s2">House of Fear</span><span class="s1">: <i>Down Below</i>. (Leonora Carrington)</span></blockquote>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">As she begins to feel herself overwhelmed by the nightmare that is wrapping her and all that she knows into a suffocatingly small space with only one possible outcome, her nerves become so raw, her <b>attention so sharp (link to Legba/Tesla)</b>, that she begins to pick up on how what happens inside her reverberates outside her. One might argue that such an assumption is a reflection of the mental break she is beginning to experience, but I would argue that it’s the rest of the world that is acting “insanely,” and her refusal to accept its logic as a sensible or reasonable parameter is hardly lunacy. She becomes lucid while awake: some part of her tries to point out that she could effect change from <i>outside</i> those parameters, and she sees it happening, but does not know what to do with it. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">
</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Alan Wallace, whose book </span><span class="s2">Dreaming Yourself Awake</span><span class="s1"> serves as a guide of sorts to knowing ‘what to do with that,’ states:</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span class="s1">“You may have noticed that by anticipating something within a lucid dream, that event will take place. In my case, when I find myself in one of my “anxious traveler” dreams, become lucid, catch myself thinking, “I think I’ve missed my flight,” I’ll glance out the airport window and, sure enough, there goes my plane taking off from the runway. I may know that I am dreaming and that the airport is not real, but there goes my plane anyway. You can use anticipation consciously to maintain lucidity. If, for instance, you think, “I bet my best friend Carl is going to walk through the door now,” often that is precisely what will happen. Then you can link such self-fulfilling prophesies into sequences. “Now Carl is going to play an accordion. The accordion is going to turn into a vintage Ferrari, and we are going to drive the coast of the French Riviera. Perhaps there will be a sunset. . . . Oh look! There it is!,” and so on.”</span></blockquote>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Expectation<i> </i>alters what will happen next, even if it makes no sense in context--in fact, it is expectation that makes it seem to make sense. This is true of the waking world. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">
</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">While she’s imprisoned in the institution, Carrington begins to explore the implications of such lucidity. And when she gets out and begins painting again, that <i>alchemy</i> of changing expectations in order to change events, is the task to which she puts herself.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2txrTHFysl_prrUdu9HTZEFu_kzKxaDmV-9S5bn_VGo5l26RUQOiVuu_J87ZF5_ptMrDiE5APZrZN5KVRtKL_UdBQ_7jqsjwU_40SpN-Jy6KeNyvQAsCjKsY6ScxB4gCkWQYZUC_7eDw/s1600/Grandmother+Moorhead's+Aromatic+Kitchen+1975+1ac.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2txrTHFysl_prrUdu9HTZEFu_kzKxaDmV-9S5bn_VGo5l26RUQOiVuu_J87ZF5_ptMrDiE5APZrZN5KVRtKL_UdBQ_7jqsjwU_40SpN-Jy6KeNyvQAsCjKsY6ScxB4gCkWQYZUC_7eDw/s400/Grandmother+Moorhead's+Aromatic+Kitchen+1975+1ac.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Grandmother Moorehead's Aromatic Kitchen</i>, by Leonora Carrington</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">In the painting above, a supernatural event takes place in a completely domestic setting: the kitchen. All the women wear disguises, or ritualistic costume; and there is a magic circle, replete with symbols, magic garlic, a strange puff of funneling air that seems to startle everyone--even the giant white goose and her indescribable companion. An important component of the artist’s work within the liminal space is redefining the meanings of objects. Cooking, here, metamorphoses from miserable-drudgery-assigned-to-women, and a way to keep them chained to the domestic sphere to powerful, spiritual and alchemical, secret underground magic.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Carrington explored this theme often, and she and her close friend Varo were well-known for having friends over and subjecting them to all kinds of bizarre oddities presented as food. Varo also wrote out recipes--which included hats and bricks in the ingredients-- to call upon certain dreams, or avoid others; in </span><span class="s2">The Hearing Trumpet</span><span class="s1">, the main character, Marian Leatherby, puts forth the idea that “The person who controls the distribution of food has almost unlimited power in a society such as ours.”</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Orenstein, in her analysis of the painting <i>The Chrysopeia of Mary the Jewess, </i>notes that<i> </i>“Both food, and art, enter the body--the eyes and the mouth, and then actually work to transform the being who has ingested them. In that sense they are similar to alchemy, for they both chemically transform the person who has prepared them. The Artist, the Alchemist, the Cook are all affected and changed, themselves, by the process involved in performing their arts.” </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">A creative act changes the creator and the ‘audience,’ or the receiver. The cooking imagery is symbolic: the change that takes place inside you when you experience her painting is not a warm fuzzy feeling, it is not a mere brightening of your day. It is a chemical change, it is a change at the atomic level, and it affects the way those atoms that are a part of you now will act when they become a part of the person you just shook hands with, and when they become a part of his daughter, when he sings her to sleep at night. This is where Einstein’s ‘spooky action at a distance’ takes on mythic proportions: you see her painting, you <i>enter</i> her painting, you understand something new; for that gasp of realization, somewhere, there exists an instant, though distant, parallel response. The <i>world outside </i>also changes. In those moments where you stand before a painting and lose the rest of the world, something deep inside you changes. Somewhere, in your own memory palace (whether you have trained to become familiar with that palace or not), in that latent image that for you defines and arranges the universe and its possibilities, something has shifted. It has been cooked; it has changed from a liquid to a solid.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">That call to change the symbolism and thus the mythology driving our society was something Leonora did share with the Surrealists. As many artists and writers of this movement met at the Villa Air-bel, hiding out as they struggled to obtain escape Visas by any means possible before capture by the Nazis, they also took on collective activities to redefine the universe in a way that made some space in it for them; one of those activities was the creation of a new Tarot deck:</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“Breton was convinced that all the surrealists must defy the spirit of Fascism “by singing, playing, and laughing with the greatest joy.” He had a new plan to distract his friends from the bleakness that lay lodged in the heart like broken glass. At Air-Bel they were to undertake a collective work of art. They would invent a new deck of cards. They would need new suits to replace the diamonds, hearts, spades, and clubs of the old deck and new figures to replace the heraldic military figures of king, queen, and jack. André immediately went to the public library on the Place Carli in Marseille to research the origins and history of the game. To his deep satisfaction, he discovered that modifications to the game over the centuries had always taken place in times of great military reversals or defeats. The surrealists wanted a game relevant to their universe, and a deck reflecting their fascination with magic, alchemy, and psychic phenomenon. They settled on four suits: Love (a flame), Dream (a black star), Revolution (a bloody wheel), and Knowledge (a door lock). The genius, the siren, and the magus replaced the royal cards. The most daunting task was to pick the figures that would become the new face cards. These they drew from the surrealist pantheon: the genius, siren and magus of Love were Baudelaire, La Religieuse Portugaise (author of the Portuguese Letters), and the poet Novalis. The figures of Dream were: Lautréamont, Alice in Wonderland, and Freud. The genius of Revolution was the Marquis de Sade, with Lamiel, a character in a novel by Stendhal, as the siren, and Pancho Villa as the magus, while the hierarchy of Knowledge was represented by Hegel, the Swiss medium Hélène Smith, and the medieval alchemist, Paracelsus. The joker was the ultimate trickster, Alfred Jarry’s Ubu Roi.15” Sullivan, Rosemary (2009-10-13). <u><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0060732512?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creativeASIN=0060732512&linkCode=xm2&tag=zoeinwonderla-20" target="_blank">Villa Air-Bel</a></u> (p. 322). </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlQwgCr-WCIud__ukcBnHoBinJG2qygLSEWABHWkdKwv6I2TLu0qKC7GSugvxBLzUUGEr4XocEje2YMOcPuuauERXIb1L_OI0Xb-9K1pFmLlkDMn8jqwMPH8nz7Md4USf1GgC0kHemgkk/s1600/Leonora-Carrington-La-maja-del-tarot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlQwgCr-WCIud__ukcBnHoBinJG2qygLSEWABHWkdKwv6I2TLu0qKC7GSugvxBLzUUGEr4XocEje2YMOcPuuauERXIb1L_OI0Xb-9K1pFmLlkDMn8jqwMPH8nz7Md4USf1GgC0kHemgkk/s400/Leonora-Carrington-La-maja-del-tarot.jpg" width="356" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><i>La Maja del Tarot</i>, 1965, Leonora Carrington; not from the Villa games</span></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">In the </span><span class="s2"><u><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1878972197?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creativeASIN=1878972197&linkCode=xm2&tag=zoeinwonderla-20" target="_blank">Hearing Trumpet</a></u></span><span class="s1">, Carmella and Marian play a similar game, where from a mere name they not only create a physical person, but his tastes and habits and a likely future in which they will interact with him, all merely possibilities which they switch around and alter with ease: meaning and reality absolutely being created. The reasoning for the existence of others is clearly linked, in this moment, to who <i>they</i> are and their moods:</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span class="s1">“‘Ever since I stole the Paris telephone directory from the consulate I have increased my output [of letters to random people]. You have no ideas of the beautiful names in Paris. This letter is addressed to Monsieur Belvedere Oise Noisis, rue de la Rechte Potin, Paris IIe. You could hardly invent anything more sonorous even if you tried. I see him as a rather frail old gentleman, still elegant, with a passion for tropical mushrooms which he grows in an Empire wardrobe. He wears embroidered waistcoats and travels with purple luggage.’</span><span class="s1">‘You know Carmella I sometimes think that you might get a reply if you didn’t impose your imagination on people you have never seen. Monsieur Belvedere Oise Noisis is undoubtedly a very nice name, but suppose he is fat and collects wicker baskets? Suppose he never travels and has no luggage, suppose he is a young man with a nautical yearning? You must be more realistic I think.’</span><span class="s1">You are sometimes very negative minded Marian, although I know you have a kind heart, that is no reason that poor Monsieur Belvedere Oise Noisis should do anything so trivial as collecting wicker baskets. He is fragile but intrepid, I intend to send him some mushroom spore to enrich the species which he had sent from the Himalayas.’ There was not more to be said so Carmella read the letter. She was pretending to be a famous Peruvian alpinist who had lost an arm trying to save the life of a grisly bear cub trapped on the edge of a precipice. The mother bear had unkindly bitten off her arm. She went on to give all sorts of information about high altitude fungus and offered to send samples. It seemed to me that she took too much for granted” (9).</span></blockquote>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">But what if she did send the samples? Varo and Carrington did write letters to unknown recipients, and did treat those recipients in the letters as if they were on some common professional ground. What if Varo, or Carmella, sent the spores? What if Monsieur Belvedere Oise Noisis found them fascinating and looked up their provenance and their history and then delved into a study which took him on to travels he never otherwise would have taken? And if he there discovered the love of his life, or the cure for the common cold, or a way (yes, mushrooms can do this) to clean up giant oil spills naturally--when before he was simply a bank clerk--would that not be magic? </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">And what if we were better able to change our own stories of ourselves so casually? It would be terribly difficult to feel trapped or overwhelmed or destroyed by events, then!</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbf9ALREStuuoKyfzIC-1ykSru2Qgf-NV_e0ErUqa4OTQ8bo3KA39HhGoWXHKnIypIcv5WoMzJ5unErRaAUKtGZDu3ImoM6z9mQfx75YUaM_jErb4rpYE0NxlHU1rqAfGfPQgQcJ4qU2A/s1600/Reina+de+los+Mandriles+Leonora+Carrington.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbf9ALREStuuoKyfzIC-1ykSru2Qgf-NV_e0ErUqa4OTQ8bo3KA39HhGoWXHKnIypIcv5WoMzJ5unErRaAUKtGZDu3ImoM6z9mQfx75YUaM_jErb4rpYE0NxlHU1rqAfGfPQgQcJ4qU2A/s400/Reina+de+los+Mandriles+Leonora+Carrington.jpg" width="321" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>La Reina de los Mandriles</i>, Leonora Carrington</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><b>III. The Real World</b></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Andre Breton, “Father” of the Surrealists, had been a medical soldier in the first World War, where he saw first-hand the kind of strain such bizarre and horrible violence put on the human mind (not only his own). He was only nineteen years old at the time, and apart from his stretcher runs to the front lines to pick up the wounded, he was assigned to a neuropsychiatric hospital in northeastern France, to assist the director with victims of <i>shell-shock</i>, a brand new disease. He took particular interest in one of the patients that had been sent to them, yanked from the front because of excessive “recklessness”:</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span class="s1">“During bombardments the soldier had stood exposed on the parapets reaching up for the grenades flying by and redirecting them with his fingers. He said the ‘make-believe’ shells could do him no harm. He believed the injuries on the bodies of his fellow soldiers were makeup and the corpses were made of wax. He believed the whole spectacle of World War I had been staged for his personal entertainment. Breton was aghast but also fascinated to watch the minds of his shell-shocked patients invent their own realities. It sparked his fascination with the phenomenon of psychic automatism. He began to read Freud and his French counterparts, and eventually took a post under Joseph Babinski, then famous as a clinical neurologist. Among his psychiatric patients, Breton found “the route-map for the great artistic journey of the coming century: the journey to the interior.” Sullivan, Rosemary (2009-10-13). <u><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0060732512?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creativeASIN=0060732512&linkCode=xm2&tag=zoeinwonderla-20" target="_blank">Villa Air-Bel</a></u> (p. 103). </span></blockquote>
<div class="p3">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">With horrors like that going on all around, you find yourself, as Victor Serge said in his memories of WWII, with nothing for it but to fight for an impossible escape.</span><span class="s2"> </span><span class="s1">You have to create a non-existent path, in your mind. So how do you go from simply escaping into your mind--that is, going mad-- to bringing the escape you found inside your mind out into the world, and making it real? </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Some people have managed this transport. They are magicians. It seems to me that Carrington and Varo managed this. Leonora Carrington, in the midst of her flight from a collapsing France, in front of the police, went completely inside her mind. She threatened out loud to assassinate Hitler, she raged against the insanity of the world outside, and she was committed for it to an asylum, where she was subjected to chemically-induced seizures that were the medical equivalent of a soldier’s torture. At one point, a distant cousin who was a medical doctor in Spain came and got her removed from that asylum, and her family (her father was a very wealthy industrialist who believed that only criminals ‘such as’ the poor and the homosexual would pursue a career in art) responded by sending company representatives to escort her to a new asylum in Africa. Leonora managed to escape her escorts and their nefarious plans by slipping out the back of a cafe during a meal, fleeing to the Mexican embassy, and marrying her friend Renato Leduc in order to get passage to Mexico. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">But let’s not forget the thing that happened in her mind. Not just before the internment, but during it as well. She escaped internment, but still suffered its effects: tales abounded of her strange behavior, of showering fully clothed in someone else’s house and returning to his armchair dripping wet; of spreading mustard on her feet in the midst of a meal in a restaurant. She had suffered a serious break with a seriously distressing reality, and while she was still unwell, was subjected to torture. Leonora Carrington went somewhere far, far away in her own mind, but she made it back.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Susan Aberth relates that Pierre Mabille offered Leonora a copy of his own book on magical traditions in many societies, an act he felt had an impact on her struggles at the time. He said, </span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span class="s1">“By reading many folk stories she found again the same symbolic images that had been part of her own experience of insanity. She also found planetary and numerological symbols with which things, even the most insignificant ones, transformed into symbols because she had the habit of seeing them more transcendently than utilitarian.” </span></blockquote>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">She found what Jung termed the collective unconscious; she discovered that, far from having disappeared off the deep end into somewhere no one had been before and no one could come back from, she had gone to a place connected to <i>all</i> of us, that those we call magicians come back from. She realized that what she had seen was a different layer of existence, a layer well underneath the one the world was so busily destroying, a layer that, if explored and made visible, might help to heal the minds of those around her by making visible “impossible” escapes. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ5Czq9BFa0eJvRa4AXlijfmbpKRPXI6vn8ZGHmRlkyCcoI-rEKz0W5n7MNGKUuMeXR0PXVygSVxZ22vFWiDALOx6SW4CIt2_R9DBStWk16Qw1QJWaIvvQmQc41oGZY83ckybnt8Cevac/s1600/Sidhe+the+White+People+of+the+Tuatha+de+Danaan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="302" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ5Czq9BFa0eJvRa4AXlijfmbpKRPXI6vn8ZGHmRlkyCcoI-rEKz0W5n7MNGKUuMeXR0PXVygSVxZ22vFWiDALOx6SW4CIt2_R9DBStWk16Qw1QJWaIvvQmQc41oGZY83ckybnt8Cevac/s400/Sidhe+the+White+People+of+the+Tuatha+de+Danaan.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><i>Sidhe, the White People of the Tuatha de Danaan</i>: </span><span class="s2">“My love for the soil, nature, the gods was given to me by my mother’s mother who was Irish from Westmeath, where there is a myth about men who lived underground inside the mountains, called the ‘little people’ who belong to the race of the ‘Sidhe’. My grandmother used to tell me we were descendants of that ancient race that magically started to live underground when their land was taken by invaders with different political and religious ideas. They preferred to retire underground where they are dedicated to magic and alchemy, knowing how to change gold. The stories my grandmother told me were fixed in my mind and they gave me mental pictures that I would later sketch on paper”</span><span class="s1"> (12, Susan Aberth quoting Leonora Carrington)</span></div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">And so, though the acts and powers of Hitler, Mussolini, and Franco have been stopped, a child today looking at a painting of Carrington (or Varo) can still be utterly and completely changed. The power a dictator has, the power <i>anything</i> has over you is in the idea that inside that power lies the only possible path for you. The moment in which you realize that is not the case is momentous, that shimmering moment in which the senseless image before you vibrates with life and meaning and a door swings open on the other side of the world, to wait for you.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">And, if you happen to be lucky enough to be anywhere <i>near</i> Dublin, Ireland, here is a treat for you: <a href="http://www.imma.ie/en/page_236722.htm" target="_blank">The Irish Museum of Modern Art</a> is having a show of Leonora Carrington's works which will focus on the aspects of Celtic Lore that influenced her art. They are also producing a show catalogue that will include many unpublished writings of Carrington. Go. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPx7USCFH6Q8kk3-wOXEZ8T4M9-fZe5U6s8OIck4K8YWWgx8kRSa2YDxsE4ARFknYXDNq5Splmh0bZ5j4NJHu1Yo5HeM2wgVO4Y_oRugpP1cXiQfhAyx2g0jMq2WDeLEyGG3q_f867tHk/s1600/Leonora+Sculpture.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPx7USCFH6Q8kk3-wOXEZ8T4M9-fZe5U6s8OIck4K8YWWgx8kRSa2YDxsE4ARFknYXDNq5Splmh0bZ5j4NJHu1Yo5HeM2wgVO4Y_oRugpP1cXiQfhAyx2g0jMq2WDeLEyGG3q_f867tHk/s640/Leonora+Sculpture.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sculpture by Leonora Carrington, image taken from <br />
<u>Leonora Carrington: Surrealism, Alchemy and Art</u> by Susan L Aberth</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
zoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16526746200112764467noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3841684678223214738.post-63438078146836964052013-09-21T10:07:00.000-07:002014-02-07T10:25:18.235-08:00Papa Legba<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRx0t4SPZasiy3a4SZhXaiw3blFOnfLQ8zsbD1T0qaqij4z1o9dyOQ4QGJvogDbCI3Lof6j0SbQbL3pvKCW5tatHbzLusw66BN_VWXUEQ5_wb5IYaZ0X53C12HaMVNI0YG74zx7yp3_Iw/s1600/one.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRx0t4SPZasiy3a4SZhXaiw3blFOnfLQ8zsbD1T0qaqij4z1o9dyOQ4QGJvogDbCI3Lof6j0SbQbL3pvKCW5tatHbzLusw66BN_VWXUEQ5_wb5IYaZ0X53C12HaMVNI0YG74zx7yp3_Iw/s400/one.jpg" width="302" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Papa Legba Maquette by zoe blue</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Papa Legba is sometimes an old man, sometimes a young man, almost always with a top hat and cane. He has one foot in your habitual ways (the "real world"), and one foot in fresh possibility; the border he crosses is the liminal space in which you are offered or forced to accept an alteration in your perspective in order to survive--a wormhole. No voodoo ceremony can begin without him: he is the one who allows the worlds of loa and humans to meet. This connection between worlds is frequently represented by a special tree, its roots reaching deep into the underworld, its trunk and branches thrusting into our reality and through to the heavens. He is syncretized with St. Peter, who holds the keys to the gates of heaven, waiting for our arrival. Papa Legba's key plants into the ground via his cane, to connect with those spirits underneath: for example, those we have lost, ancestors. The key grows into a support for him, and also a snake (dweller of the worlds below). His scarf, a bird, covers any calls to the over-world spirits, those in the heavens, that we aspire to, that we desire to live through us. The bird-soul transcends the old. Papa Legba changes from old to new, from human to not, from alive to dead and back again.
And he’s looking at <i>you</i>.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcBlfw57LIoiHSuovGCKad89dcwKmHXUwvakRX_jg8D_7J6dSa9bFGAfdF0ggqZKMZBWRrYCnAzV1cR7NJx1RyEx9QQaRuoHg3r2DvaE-r4sT2p-ADDUdUmi6KhhL8XSAS7aPuDPHjj8I/s1600/two.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcBlfw57LIoiHSuovGCKad89dcwKmHXUwvakRX_jg8D_7J6dSa9bFGAfdF0ggqZKMZBWRrYCnAzV1cR7NJx1RyEx9QQaRuoHg3r2DvaE-r4sT2p-ADDUdUmi6KhhL8XSAS7aPuDPHjj8I/s400/two.jpg" width="343" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">Papa Legba Maquette by zoe blue</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjamMyxo6tYNESmBaCWgRPLh3iSdDQRdTV8Vmc8qTaXPQ6S_PIsC8vx4rHkppiqB-FfRV5xN_soKccc06AHgBjpY4D3vcgrbjS6iT7lt-slz7sqwfmEDkK1KHGBSoZBvjOrbUngS_otTMg/s1600/three.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjamMyxo6tYNESmBaCWgRPLh3iSdDQRdTV8Vmc8qTaXPQ6S_PIsC8vx4rHkppiqB-FfRV5xN_soKccc06AHgBjpY4D3vcgrbjS6iT7lt-slz7sqwfmEDkK1KHGBSoZBvjOrbUngS_otTMg/s1600/three.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maquettes in the style taught by <a href="http://clivehicksjenkins.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Clive Hicks-Jenkins</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">What is this key? Papa Legba is the language loa, he translates your cry of pain into a question, your inability to express your needs and desires into a new universe, where those needs and desires are so natural, they are easily communicated. Languages and stories (and symbols) are used in society to tie everyone together into a community, to a consensual reality, to the same (overall) patterns of understanding. As long as we’re using the shared image-meanings, then we follow the same story of humanity. If we <i>want</i> a different story, what then? What can Legba do? He can give us a key--that is, access to other symbols, or other ways to see your own. He can give new meaning to what is already there before you, unlocking its other possible meanings, <i>translating it</i>, thereby changing the world.</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgevtWs-MfxlWY0A0I1rvszM0y5CKvCxRtA7TEdiDisCyRkQqmU4cW-U_AIgtbM3UBCWcVJNH21gBdyzA25-jWO9Yo5TcgcDm3Yson2pIJigYJEVoPMT8M015mCEHW-RzntoYYCA9eYk5w/s1600/four.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgevtWs-MfxlWY0A0I1rvszM0y5CKvCxRtA7TEdiDisCyRkQqmU4cW-U_AIgtbM3UBCWcVJNH21gBdyzA25-jWO9Yo5TcgcDm3Yson2pIJigYJEVoPMT8M015mCEHW-RzntoYYCA9eYk5w/s1600/four.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ7fR0K2lPhWJV7bO1ZIcFAhBg0gGfJbgA2sJoSjT3hifXQOa8uHqvZpz2CfVzsVyYKwEvII82sK3QumtFro4JuwCi-lIBHJR4-6N6deMhy6iVWvQGlrqDWSRUBYJ37CEfFXeFBnx5HGw/s1600/five.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ7fR0K2lPhWJV7bO1ZIcFAhBg0gGfJbgA2sJoSjT3hifXQOa8uHqvZpz2CfVzsVyYKwEvII82sK3QumtFro4JuwCi-lIBHJR4-6N6deMhy6iVWvQGlrqDWSRUBYJ37CEfFXeFBnx5HGw/s1600/five.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Everyone has personal symbols. Even if we aren’t aware of them, they rear up in our dreams and they modify our behavior (sometimes in ways that directly clash with societal mores); they are there, underneath, as a part of who we are. We all <i>begin</i> as synaesthetes, in fact, combining our understanding of the world across pairings from various senses. Alexandra Horowitz talks about this in her book<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1439191255?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creativeASIN=1439191255&linkCode=xm2&tag=zoeinwonderla-20" target="_blank"> </a></span><span class="s2"><u><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1439191255?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creativeASIN=1439191255&linkCode=xm2&tag=zoeinwonderla-20" target="_blank">On Looking, Eleven Walks with Expert Eyes</a></u>:</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><br /></span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span class="s1">“What the infant sees, for instance, is something quite fuzzier and more dazzling than what the normal adult sees: babies are very nearsighted and they lack the clouded filters that take bright light down a notch. Even more critically, the world is not yet organized into discrete objects for these new eyes: It is all light and dark, shadow and brightness. To the newborn infant, there is no ‘crib,’ no ‘mama’ and ‘daddy,’ no floor no wall no window no sky. Much of this can be seen, but none can yet be made sense of. </span><span class="s1"></span></blockquote>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span class="s1">Information taken in by the eyes might be processed in any part of the brain--it could be the visual cortex, leading to an inchoate ‘seeing’; but it could also be the motor cortex, leading to a leg kicking; or the auditory cortex, in which case a nearby teddy bear may be experienced as a bang, or a ringing, or a whisper. There is good reason to believe that this kind of synesthesia is the normal experience for infants. Synesthesia--literally ‘joining of sensations’-- is a somewhat rare and highly improbable form of perception in adults[....]</span><span class="s1"></span></blockquote>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span class="s1">While tasting sounds or smelling letters is viewed as aberrant (if conducive to creativity) among adults, those eminently creative infants may sense the world with crossed wires all the time. Heinz Werner, a German psychologist of the early twentieth century, called this the ‘sensorium commune’: a primordial way of experiencing the world, pre-knowledge and pre-categorization. Researchers have found remnants of this perceptual organization in adults: on being shown drawings of curly lines, adults tend to characterize the lines as ‘happy’; descending lines, ‘sad’; sharp lines, ‘angry.’ To <i>feel</i> a tone, as though one were inside a vibrating bell, is to see glimpses of your vestigial sensorium commune.</span><span class="s1"></span></blockquote>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span class="s1">But mostly, we ignore that feeling; we do not label lines as being happy or vexed or gloomy. One theory of synesthesia holds that the synapses connecting neurons identifying shapes and those leading to the experience of taste get snipped sometime in the first few years of life. This may be the </span><span class="s1">simple result of our lack of attention to the connection.”</span></blockquote>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2">
</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><i>Lack of attention</i>. That’s precisely it. The important objects, experiences, and details--that is, the ones clearly marked by our parents, extended family, teachers, priests, politicians, etc as important--are granted our attention and they develop. But the other connections, the other details, are still there in your brain. They still exist as a part of you. And in some other universe, you are living according to those connections. If you can find them, from <i>here</i>, you can go <i>there</i>. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">
</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">If synesthesia is conducive, as Horowitz suggests, to creativity, why not <i>seek out</i> such connections? In fact, isn’t that exactly the Art of Memory, the <a href="http://zoe-in-wonderland.blogspot.com/2011/07/ars-memoria-with-cat.html" target="_blank">Ars Memoria</a>? Recall that the process is to break an idea down into images, sounds, smells--some kind of symbols--which help you to hold together the disparate parts of the idea. A <a href="http://zoe-in-wonderland.blogspot.com/2012/06/not-defeated-humans-non-humans-and.html" target="_blank">woodchuck holding a crumbling, tart apple tart</a>, enters the cafe and tries to find a friend. His crumbling tart, the couch where Freud sits, the woman in the red dress all come together in a way particular to you, meaningful to you, and this process of knitting together the symbols not only helps your recall of the information, but guides you to realize, accidentally, other previously unseen connections between things, which leads directly to creativity and invention. This is, I believe, the magic that the practitioners of <i>Ars Memoria</i> were suspected of: by shifting around seemingly symbolic objects in their minds--Varo’s pot of green paint, her stencil for cutting out vests--, they affected the outside world. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguMk1JcZTxFJnNHNL6WQzA3kYCmq6BCZ7xgr7HeGPMGPLxABD5doMM6sM-TezK8AFYC16Ij5PjFvJEWj-XpPuqvOsCt-H8BRr2URpX2hbY494n8iWfhm2KfxCydtUSqltEWEbvPPXZ0AY/s1600/seven.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguMk1JcZTxFJnNHNL6WQzA3kYCmq6BCZ7xgr7HeGPMGPLxABD5doMM6sM-TezK8AFYC16Ij5PjFvJEWj-XpPuqvOsCt-H8BRr2URpX2hbY494n8iWfhm2KfxCydtUSqltEWEbvPPXZ0AY/s1600/seven.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd6z6_3AKPqaGpESua0fbD9faLfGVPMU1Tuytbcr3H_gBtsekuX5w3xXFECjVO2Zj5NpmxXNV0LxJofLstE2dxlE4780kwjAXspxY27IuuJSR7-InDxHy0gl5Tx8uLi2FQxpN2ilT0hKY/s1600/six.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd6z6_3AKPqaGpESua0fbD9faLfGVPMU1Tuytbcr3H_gBtsekuX5w3xXFECjVO2Zj5NpmxXNV0LxJofLstE2dxlE4780kwjAXspxY27IuuJSR7-InDxHy0gl5Tx8uLi2FQxpN2ilT0hKY/s1600/six.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s2"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">In his book, </span><span class="s2"><u><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0806519606?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creativeASIN=0806519606&linkCode=xm2&tag=zoeinwonderla-20" target="_blank">Wizard: The Life and Times of Nikola Tesla</a></u></span><span class="s1">, Mark Seifer describes a moment of such odd connections in which Tesla went from nearly killing himself (through physical and mental exhaustion) in an effort to solve a problem to its sudden, clearly laid-out solution, via a gorgeous sunset and a Goethe poem. He was struggling to design a way to harness AC power without any ‘cumbersome’ intermediaries, and the struggle took every minute of his time, and he drove himself so hard that he suffered a nervous collapse, which took on the aspect of a <i>severe attention to detail</i>:</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span class="s1">“I could hear the ticking of a watch…three rooms [away]. A fly alighting on a table…would cause a dull thud in my ear. A carriage passing at a distance…fairly shook my whole body…I had to support my bed on rubber cushions to get any rest at all…The sun’s rays, when periodically intercepted, would cause blows of such force on my brain that they would stun me…In the dark I had the sense of a bat and could detect the presence of an object…by a peculiar creepy sensation on the forehead.” A respected doctor “pronounced [his] malady unique and incurable.” Desperately clinging to life, Tesla was not expected to recover.”</span></blockquote>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">His friend Szigeti took him out to the park to try to get him moving around. They went at sunset, and suddenly, the beauty of the scenery caused Tesla to burst into spontaneous recitation: </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">‘See how the setting sun, with ruddy glow, </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">The green-embosomed hamlet fires.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">He sinks and fades, the day is lived and gone. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">He hastens forth new scenes of life to waken. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">O for a wing to lift and bear me on, </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">And on to where his last rays beckon.’</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">(<i>From</i> <i>Goethe’s </i></span><span class="s2"><i>Faust</i></span><span class="s1">) </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">
</span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span class="s1">“As I uttered these inspiring words,” Tesla declared, “the truth was (suddenly) revealed. I drew with a stick on the sand the diagrams shown six years later in my address before the American Institute of Electrical Engineers…Pygmalion seeing his statue come to life could not have been more deeply moved.”</span></blockquote>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHQBUCkDfU1kg4j8ysFXcsxOf4v5IofwKrBvp9un2swQidnokmkDaOwb9uXHvIsAlFtwhOuglRF9BRo3A6-BtFE70WIdB-Zd3_vmRWFvMmyVQdfGS18_PTHe_We6PioB56CWAj8QWCdeg/s1600/eight.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHQBUCkDfU1kg4j8ysFXcsxOf4v5IofwKrBvp9un2swQidnokmkDaOwb9uXHvIsAlFtwhOuglRF9BRo3A6-BtFE70WIdB-Zd3_vmRWFvMmyVQdfGS18_PTHe_We6PioB56CWAj8QWCdeg/s1600/eight.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-rTd6sjpQ_upgPNelM5IqjB3poPjI2H8S7k6EM0t9wmLVm2NjWq4s_BfMC545fcorV1DDTKrsODCdJSHPBK09NVC3HZzGwOjFgJgvym6y2V_8d_NxKxzqPyHMLNOr4PdWBQAOpE8yAUs/s1600/nine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-rTd6sjpQ_upgPNelM5IqjB3poPjI2H8S7k6EM0t9wmLVm2NjWq4s_BfMC545fcorV1DDTKrsODCdJSHPBK09NVC3HZzGwOjFgJgvym6y2V_8d_NxKxzqPyHMLNOr4PdWBQAOpE8yAUs/s1600/nine.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">The association between sunset, Faust, and successfully harnessing AC power is still lost on me, but the world has been changed as a result of his connection of those things: power floods our homes, lights our nights, keeps the stereo on and the clothes clean and me instantly connected to friends across the world. All of these things were once unimaginable. Impossible. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTbtw-RcsztzJdsywVdEr4NBQamyrkta5pUmMCqa-mejdEHm5rPr2FCaLc-m1spB_12iqhp6ftwhkIADMoGQDRQVQ-XeqLS8D-Ug5o-tw8DUC5zosm4Z2s79x4KWaTsUaF4uag_sVVO04/s1600/ten.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTbtw-RcsztzJdsywVdEr4NBQamyrkta5pUmMCqa-mejdEHm5rPr2FCaLc-m1spB_12iqhp6ftwhkIADMoGQDRQVQ-XeqLS8D-Ug5o-tw8DUC5zosm4Z2s79x4KWaTsUaF4uag_sVVO04/s1600/ten.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Yet, here we are.</span><br />
<span class="s1"><br /></span>
<span class="s1">**Update: please follow the link in Niklas' comment, the essay is fantastic!!</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
zoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16526746200112764467noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3841684678223214738.post-10372365781223927012013-09-17T09:44:00.001-07:002013-09-17T09:45:26.506-07:00Disarm: A Miracle<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr6X8qmoVdKZTcPblQaDUwVHhAim2Dr2dO4tBhFdmery65VIvFh_fm51csW2YhICsCrzkrYsas0cUbndyp3eL3075-p39jc7DKfwvnPPmLoNfsC8GpvT5zbAvHbHCKwmLIYjcG7s4jZNo/s1600/one.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="289" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr6X8qmoVdKZTcPblQaDUwVHhAim2Dr2dO4tBhFdmery65VIvFh_fm51csW2YhICsCrzkrYsas0cUbndyp3eL3075-p39jc7DKfwvnPPmLoNfsC8GpvT5zbAvHbHCKwmLIYjcG7s4jZNo/s320/one.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>"I believe that the purpose of art is to come up with ways to transform our most negative instincts into creative instincts."--Pedro Reyes</i></blockquote>
<br />
In 2008, artist <a href="http://www.pedroreyes.net/index.php?szLang=en&Area=work&SubArea=13" target="_blank">Pedro Reyes</a> implemented a project in the city of Culiacán (Mexico) by which he campaigned for voluntary donation of weapons, which could be exchanged for a coupon that local stores would honor for domestic appliances or electronics. He ended up collecting 1527 weapons, 40% of which were military, high-powered automatic weapons. The weapons were crushed, melted, and sent to a factory to create exactly 1527 shovels. The shovels were then distributed to schools and other institutions to be used for the planting of 1527 trees.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivS0AGAaazdLY1ndGhQW0gfpPDnyWaNN1AT5ndLOA9-YtELwVvfLGcqaHEQX14vdCWPWOW67bVtZEe2s7_5_XbYLTLsru-bAZXiV6Pf-pLt-8WFUMKl17oXNrmQi8peF__InIGPyXjhyphenhyphenU/s1600/two.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivS0AGAaazdLY1ndGhQW0gfpPDnyWaNN1AT5ndLOA9-YtELwVvfLGcqaHEQX14vdCWPWOW67bVtZEe2s7_5_XbYLTLsru-bAZXiV6Pf-pLt-8WFUMKl17oXNrmQi8peF__InIGPyXjhyphenhyphenU/s320/two.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Through this project, he was exploring the transformation--alchemical, really--of an "agent of death" into an "agent of life." And then someone told him about a mass of weapons that had <i>not</i> been voluntarily given up, but rather taken in the raids and arrests of cartel members.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_pg09bPimKAXCl3H0D-s_oL5_g8j9AQkR7nGrd4PD31eH68Jql40VmuGtW1bqcbVMN4si8Ye7WezHHDkniFbobAUoRX-mMODO8lFKx4PRLqGsCFZDJLY771p9HlGt1IVcgMjxw7A2kLo/s1600/three.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_pg09bPimKAXCl3H0D-s_oL5_g8j9AQkR7nGrd4PD31eH68Jql40VmuGtW1bqcbVMN4si8Ye7WezHHDkniFbobAUoRX-mMODO8lFKx4PRLqGsCFZDJLY771p9HlGt1IVcgMjxw7A2kLo/s320/three.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
These weapons had been dismantled (made unusable) and were scheduled to be buried, but Reyes had in mind another alchemical project, instead. A massive project, a study of sound and technology as well as sculpture.<br />
<br />
He says, "I'm taking this piece of metal, this pistol, which represents our instinct of killing each other, and I'm turning it into a (musical) instrument which is, ultimately, the most sophisticated form of communication on the planet."<br />
<br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB9WV8qZRWW6w46AmQxCNyrzLNOhzq51lBfsQvfxoPdktNoF2nS3uybZRkOEXnk7_FRqR0bjpSmZNFsOeoxwJTsFFfdIGH4pTaXLVvnq-LCggeAQ3jMys8GM5hE2QmfrJTN2RslhQc_TU/s1600/four.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB9WV8qZRWW6w46AmQxCNyrzLNOhzq51lBfsQvfxoPdktNoF2nS3uybZRkOEXnk7_FRqR0bjpSmZNFsOeoxwJTsFFfdIGH4pTaXLVvnq-LCggeAQ3jMys8GM5hE2QmfrJTN2RslhQc_TU/s320/four.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
On his own blog (here quoted from <a href="http://www.thisiscolossal.com/2013/09/disarm-pedro-reyes/" target="_blank">Colossal</a>), Pedro Reyes says of the project that "It’s difficult to explain but the transformation was more than physical. It’s important to consider that many lives were taken with these weapons; as if a sort of exorcism was taking place the music expelled the demons they held, as well as being a requiem for lives lost."<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDsHjm8eKYNMWJ1Yxb6g8Gt78vUUV-aDd0iOxzh55m2xFYypGEtPgwpMjDTwP3uzMH4_5kOhv5eSxnmGHXlBae_s-odlIi7NGFGX0S3gOWnkmqp9oDSCLgYwp47uWviimRuNIvL_pSEcM/s1600/five.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDsHjm8eKYNMWJ1Yxb6g8Gt78vUUV-aDd0iOxzh55m2xFYypGEtPgwpMjDTwP3uzMH4_5kOhv5eSxnmGHXlBae_s-odlIi7NGFGX0S3gOWnkmqp9oDSCLgYwp47uWviimRuNIvL_pSEcM/s320/five.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
It occurs to me that as a musician, it would be amazing to have made your own instrument, a unique instrument for yourself, which is also a sculpture--not factory-made, not something you dumped a bunch of money on-- which would also serve as a talisman, really. What could have claimed your life, what promised only horror, now you have transformed, as if in a lucid dream, into a luminous voice that expresses an entirely different intention. The instrument itself represents evolution, and each time you picked it up, there would be a sense of reverence, a sense of possibility, and a sense of your own magical power.<br />
<br />
Enjoy the video!<br />
<br />
<iframe width="420" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/YwQp16D-TqQ" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>
<br />
<br />
Mr. Reyes will be giving a talk on this project at the Carnegie Museum of Art in Pittsburgh, PA on October 5, from 5-7 PM.<br />
Via <a href="http://www.thisiscolossal.com/2013/09/disarm-pedro-reyes/" target="_blank">Colossal</a>.<br />
<br />zoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16526746200112764467noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3841684678223214738.post-57111482553696830532013-08-30T14:24:00.000-07:002014-02-07T10:25:18.220-08:00Santa Caterina: Shaman<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTFozr6xlxhYrg3cfAZsHsm0VI4CuFO2vL8lXK0Mhh4UYhZpp0Z3dfVu0XSviLx5chlsRZr_jUcuvrtxsgTCoxPaCFa63SRPVq0p87qYrR_ppMqSXzEtb5Y4L6PJ9YGGRLhI7ggsqYJCI/s1600/Santa+Caterina+IV+Shaman+AFTERNOON+web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTFozr6xlxhYrg3cfAZsHsm0VI4CuFO2vL8lXK0Mhh4UYhZpp0Z3dfVu0XSviLx5chlsRZr_jUcuvrtxsgTCoxPaCFa63SRPVq0p87qYrR_ppMqSXzEtb5Y4L6PJ9YGGRLhI7ggsqYJCI/s400/Santa+Caterina+IV+Shaman+AFTERNOON+web.jpg" width="296" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Santa Caterina: Acrylic and Gold Leaf on Panel<br />
18 x 24, by zoe blue<br />
<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">(Other studies of this saint are <a href="http://zoe-in-wonderland.blogspot.com/2012/04/santa-caterina-and-her-violetta.html" target="_blank">here</a>, <a href="http://zoe-in-wonderland.blogspot.com/2013/06/santa-caterina-saint-of-your.html" target="_blank">here</a> and <a href="http://zoe-in-wonderland.blogspot.com/2013/06/santa-caterina-iv-tango-to-parallel.html" target="_blank">here</a>.)</span><br />
<span class="s1"><br /></span>
<span class="s1">In Charleroi, there is a patch of ground which seizes you when you cross it, forcing you dance. It is a sweet spot in the universe, and when the people of the surrounding areas need healing, they go there to dance the cure into being. It began as the site of a compulsive public mania of dancing, which has now been ritualized, the people led across the plot by a priest and always with the same effect. Perhaps Santa Caterina is reaching down over that space with her violin, breathing madness and holiness into their small human forms, leading them to ecstasy. </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">But who brought <i>her</i> to ecstasy? </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">According to the author of </span><span class="s2"><u>Music and Trance</u></span><span class="s1">, the difference between the dance of the possessed and the dance of the shaman is in who plays the music. A shaman plays her own music, and that music changes not just her perception, but transforms the world. Her music possesses others, imposing her own imagination onto the once solid forms of their universe. What makes Santa Caterina a saint, or a shaman, is that she doesn’t only change the world for herself: you cross her “patch of earth,” and you, too, are changed.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">In this painting, Caterina is caught, mid-leap into the frame, simultaneously reaching into yet another universe to manipulate the dancers via her instrument. Having worked herself into a frenzy with her music, she has vaulted clear into another reality, one shining with the clear gold light that only the holy mind reaches, the light between one universe and another, between death and birth, that blazing moment of nothingness before the world is created anew.</span></div>
zoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16526746200112764467noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3841684678223214738.post-52957228030300149522013-07-21T18:33:00.001-07:002014-02-07T10:25:18.205-08:00St. Fevronia IV: Perfect Abandon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="p1">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipIcRbhdWzrbq9o9jXmHRPgLslJ-n0mCqrJcvvZorHaYFVBhZennamzy0aDxoqI7yBVwlrAbzuR6vjWb8deszuC08FFgbBvzjEYD0k2EfkqdlFra5e0TPhbLWYRbwLEHsU_N0JQVfOiJ0/s1600/Fevronia+IV-+Falling+Floating+2+Web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipIcRbhdWzrbq9o9jXmHRPgLslJ-n0mCqrJcvvZorHaYFVBhZennamzy0aDxoqI7yBVwlrAbzuR6vjWb8deszuC08FFgbBvzjEYD0k2EfkqdlFra5e0TPhbLWYRbwLEHsU_N0JQVfOiJ0/s400/Fevronia+IV-+Falling+Floating+2+Web.jpg" width="292" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St. Fevronia IV: Perfect Abandon<br />
Acrylic on Panel 18 x 24 by zoe blue</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">In his article <i>Dream Theory in Malaya,*</i> the anthropologist Kilton Stewart described his study of the utilization of dreams in Senoi society. The Senoi were an isolated tribe of the Malay Peninsula at the time of his writing and research, in 1935; his interest in them was piqued by the fact that they seemed able to keep other tribes at bay without the use of violence, simply through a reputation for witchcraft: he thus set about to study the way that they used lucid dreaming and dream interpretation as a major part of that perceived power to manipulate the world around them. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Their response to dreams of falling struck him particularly, as it did me:</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“The simplest anxiety or terror dream I found among the Senoi was the falling dream. When the Senoi child reports a falling dream, the adult answers with enthusiasm, ‘That is a wonderful dream, one of the best dreams a man can have. Where did you fall to, and what did you discover?’ ...The child at first answers, as he would in our society, that it did not seem so wonderful, and that he was so frightened that he awoke before he had fallen anywhere.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">‘That was a mistake,’ answers the adult-authority. ‘Everything you do in a dream has a purpose, beyond your understanding while you are asleep. You must relax and enjoy yourself when you fall in a dream. Falling is the quickest way to get in contact with the powers of the spirit world, the powers laid open to you through your dreams. Soon, when you have a falling dream, you will remember what I am saying, and as you do, you will feel that you are traveling to the source of the power which has caused you to fall.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">‘The falling spirits love you. They are attracting you to their land, and you have but to relax and remain asleep in order to come to grips with them. When you meet them, you may be frightened of their terrific power, but go on. When you think you are dying in a dream, you are only receiving the powers of the other world, your own spiritual power which has been turned against you, and which now wishes to become one with you if you will accept it."</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">The astonishing thing is that over a period of time, with this type of social interaction, praise, or criticism, imperatives, and advice, the dream which starts out with fear of falling <i>changes into the joy of flying</i>.”</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">This struck me as the perfect description for <a href="http://zoe-in-wonderland.blogspot.com/2012/07/angels-and-demons.html" target="_blank">passing through Borges’ mirror</a> to the other, less automatic, more alive (terrifying, unknown) universe; a passing which I have also depicted as the plunge into an underwater universe as taken by <a href="http://zoe-in-wonderland.blogspot.com/2012/10/st-fevronia-from-brocken-specter-to.html" target="_blank">the people following St. Fevronia</a><i> </i>under threat of annihilation by the soldiers of Batu Khan. Falling comes somewhere between floating and flying, and in this lucid-dreaming version is a perfect abandon. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">In that post-painting haze, as I was trying to organize my thoughts about this plunge-float-fall, I stumbled upon a book with an intriguing title:<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B006U5VIIC?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creativeASIN=B006U5VIIC&linkCode=xm2&tag=zoeinwonderla-20" target="_blank"> </a></span><span class="s3"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B006U5VIIC?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creativeASIN=B006U5VIIC&linkCode=xm2&tag=zoeinwonderla-20" target="_blank">Time Distortion in Hypnosis</a></span><span class="s1">, </span></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B006U5VIIC?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creativeASIN=B006U5VIIC&linkCode=xm2&tag=zoeinwonderla-20" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZai3F59_BM5IFVAwIIz8WQbSZckc77c93y6Y4vRsHtRCGTpC03CP5igtdBllsc-o0hz_GGyOzA8fCVOegAsHYYJDf2dng1vDkXc66ufjfPbONiNarMmlHWJW93RP7WEyrAkgQUDuJOqA/s1600/Time+Distortion+in+Hypnosis.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="p1">
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"> by Linn Cooper and Milton Erickson. The sensation of floating, like the sensation of falling, carries with it a suspension of time, and it is somewhere in that suspension that we can find the ‘source of the power’ Stewart was referring to in his study. In their book, Cooper and Erickson detailed the studies they had managed in which they taught their subjects to greatly distort time, a difficult concept to grasp mentally, for which they gave the examples of dream-time and those expanded moments of fear for one’s life:</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“Thus, a young man who very nearly ran his car over a cliff while taking his fiancee for a drive, reported that the time interval during which they were in danger seemed to be very long. In analyzing certain other aspects of his experience, he told of doing an amount of thinking and reflecting that was appropriate to a long interval. In other words, the seeming duration was long. However, on considering the number of feet which the car had slid with locked wheels and its probable speed when the emergency occurred, he was able to calculate that the clock reading during the emergency was but a few seconds.”</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">You have a lot of things going on internally at all times, most of which you are unaware of--including not only things like breathing but also things like the <a href="http://zoe-in-wonderland.blogspot.com/2013/02/a-manual-of-detection-how-to-stop-time.html" target="_blank">decision about what to see</a> --but in moments of intense focus, like the above car accident, you can more actively take in all those details that some part of your brain is always filing away somewhere: for example, the minute movements of facial muscles, subtle clues in body language, calculating your opponent’s next swing, the precise amount you should turn the wheel to avoid oncoming traffic, remembering to relax your body before impact and focusing on the breaths you are taking, how loud they might be if a predator is present, and how they are affecting your body’s ability to move and process information. A person who has this focus at all times would have immense communicative abilities, as well as a fantastic control over the ability to pull opportunities towards him and dangers away from him. As noted, we usually only experience that focus during those moments of intense terror or danger, but aren’t meditation, hypnosis, and lucid dreaming <i>exactly</i> this sort of pausing and stretching of time?</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">What all that suggests is this: what’s important is not how long a second takes, but rather how much you can consciously extract from that second.<br />
</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">The second itself is apparently very, very relative. A good example of this relativity is given early on in the book with the task of picking cotton given to the subjects in two different ways. In the first test, the subject was hypnotized, placed in a mental cotton field, and asked to pick four rows of cotton, signaling the experimenter when the task was complete. It took her 217 seconds to complete the task, and she told the experimenter that she had picked 719 cotton bolls:</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“She picked with her right hand part of the time, and with her left hand part of the time, shifting the bag accordingly. She picked only ripe bolls, leaving the green ones alone. Sometimes she stopped and brushed the leaves aside to make sure that she hadn’t missed any. She didn’t hurry, but she worked steadily. It was late afternoon, and the woods along the west edge of the field cast a shadow. She stated that she seemed to have been working about an hour and twenty minutes.”</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Then the same task was given, but this time instead of the limit being four rows, the limit was one hour and twenty minutes. The subject was hypnotized, placed in the mental cotton field, and given <i>three seconds</i>--this fact was unknown to her. After three seconds, the experimenter had her blank her mind, stopping everything, then asked her to report. This time, she had picked 862 bolls, again without hurry. The <i>felt</i> time was an hour and twenty minutes. Asked to describe the experience, she remember detail, and she felt the time pass. The result suggests that the last second was actually decisive: at that point, the subject’s mind felt that the entire experience should be over, and it filled in the story, detail by detail.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Doesn’t that make you wonder where all your memories come from?</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">To further investigate, the doctors tried introducing sound to the test. Given a ten-second experiment, they would chime a knife against a glass 4 seconds in, without any warning given to the subject. The subject may have been preparing a meal as his or her task, and would then report a phone ringing or dropping a pitcher to the floor--his hallucinated experience would include a confabulation to make sense of the sound that his ears had picked up. The most interesting thing about that is how he managed to drop the pitcher <i>before</i> he heard the sound, so that the <i>timing of it hitting the floor would match the sound of its contact</i>. How did that happen?</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">What if everything, your entire life story, is happening all at once? What if all you think you have ever experienced is a <i>pattern</i>, which you are focusing on during this second, a pattern which explains world politics, the music your neighbor is playing, the proliferation of weapons at your local school, your food allergies, your preferences in a significant other, the quality of the education you have gotten, what you’re wearing right now? What if you’re really starting from that last second--the second <i>right now</i>--and explaining it all to yourself in high speed that feels like the normal unfolding of an entire life? What counts, what matters, if that’s the case, is the <i>pattern,</i> yes? Like a fractal, unfolding in each snowflake, each furl of a leaf, the placement of the planets.<a href="http://zoe-in-wonderland.blogspot.com/2009/03/consensual-reality.html" target="_blank"> Like each bit of information contained in a hologram</a>.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Cooper and Erickson worked with several musicians, and got some rather interesting results, exemplified in the reports of a professional violinist, who used her “special time” (what they called those gloriously long seconds) to review and practice violin pieces, describing them in a manner reminiscent of the eye-flickering it takes Neo to learn Jujutsu in the </span><span class="s3">Matrix</span><span class="s1">. She would play not just the entire piece, but also difficult passages over and over, strengthening her actual finger memory, her general technique, and her performance ability in the process.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">The authors suggest that the reason musical subjects are able to both hear long pieces of music and practice them in such short periods of time is because “a piece of music is a pattern, extended in experiential time...” and another subject described her experience with this “special time” similarly:</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“I can see the beginning and the end of everything I do in a trance. Like a dream, it’s a round thing--it’s not a progression. In music you have to begin at the beginning and play it through to the end, but in a painting you can see it all at once.”</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">I stayed up late reading all this, and the next morning in an incredible moment of synchronicity, I woke up with this poem waiting for me from Vesna, who had not seen or heard anything about this painting or the book I was reading, though everything in the poem, from its ‘all-at-once’ nature to the gradation of colors seems related, to me:</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Where do I begin</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">If not from the end?</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">The breadcrumbs of memories will take me</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Where I need to be</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">The Black will fade</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Into Indigo</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Purple</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">and Blue</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Absorbed in soliloquy</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Embracing the mystery</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Where do I begin</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">If not from the end?</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">--<a href="http://vesnikus.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Vesna</a></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">In the above painting, St. Fevronia has taken the plunge: she is relaxed, floating or falling towards another pattern, another universe entirely, in a moment of intense focus and need that somehow feels like joy. The blue (moonlit) hellebores are here again because it is all a matter of perception.</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<br />
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">*Stewart later wrote </span><span class="s3">Pygmies and Dream Giants </span><span class="s1">, a book which wielded a great influence on the development of dream theory. Note that UCSC research professor G. William Domhoff (who was not there for the study) began around 1985 to argue that Stewart inflated and embellished his findings, and he claims that there is no evidence that this analysis of falling dreams belongs to the Senoi. Since my interest is in the idea the analysis itself provides, not who created it, I will leave that argument to others.</span></div>
zoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16526746200112764467noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3841684678223214738.post-48159723340469766672013-06-30T13:27:00.000-07:002014-02-07T10:25:18.191-08:00Santa Caterina IV: Tango to a Parallel Universe<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz28_aDqQNoHkI92J13lsK2GA-sW-6uwc2tCoJksuMGIfSIhn6y4TAfQ71BHyzzD1FTo9KKSN57TFmbquCvAk8Vj8VZyGusBHEmwQveD2zcV2AfXKXMPvKUYf54nalEmUOaiqf0uexiKM/s1600/Santa+Caterina+Trio+Web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz28_aDqQNoHkI92J13lsK2GA-sW-6uwc2tCoJksuMGIfSIhn6y4TAfQ71BHyzzD1FTo9KKSN57TFmbquCvAk8Vj8VZyGusBHEmwQveD2zcV2AfXKXMPvKUYf54nalEmUOaiqf0uexiKM/s320/Santa+Caterina+Trio+Web.jpg" width="238" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Santa Caterina at the Crossing<br />Acrylic on Panel, 18 x 24, by Zoe Blue<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">“A 24-year-old woman was first seen in 1950, because of seizures. From early childhood she had been unusually fond of music and had always felt a strong desire to express her emotions in dancing. At the age of 16 she was a tall, gaunt girl who felt both inferior and aloof. At this time she would often dance in the living room and her father would tease her about her ‘jitterbug antics.’ Offended, she would withdraw to her room and in solitude play records by the hour. She felt transported by loud ‘swing’ music and discovered that by concentrating intensely she could ‘see visions.’ These usually were of a blond woman and a dark man. They were dressed in various fashions but usually wore evening clothes, as if they were about to attend a formal dance. The couple seemed to be dancing together. The patient mentioned this phenomenon casually to her parents and friends, none of whom believed her. She rather enjoyed the vision and the accompanying trancelike state which she entered after prolonged listening. She continued to induce these episodes for the next 2 years.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">In 1945, the patient struck her head in an automobile accident; however, there was no alteration of consciousness or signs of external injury. She was in bed for the next 5 days because of ‘shock.’ Six months later she had a nocturnal generalized convulsion. Shortly thereafter the visual hallucinations began to appear whenever she heard certain music, even though she had not consciously willed them. This inexorable recurrence reduced her to panic at the sound of jazz music...” {Source: <i>Musicogenic Epilepsy: Report of 3 Cases</i>; David D. Daly, MD and Maurice J Barry, Jr., MD; </span><span class="s2">Psychosomatic Medicine</span><span class="s1">, September 1957, 19: 399-408}.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">Did her desire, her focus, her need--and the music--bring her in contact with some other reality, in which a woman danced with a partner, instead of alone and subject to ridicule? It is important to notice the difference between a fantasy or daydream and a hallucination, the latter affecting all the senses and being something that our entire being sinks into. </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">And what happened after the accident? All of a sudden the existence of that other pair no longer depended upon her call...as if they really did exist on their own...</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">If there really are unlimited streams of reality, where could they all be hiding, other than inside the mind? As we trace the electricity of our brains and bodies and the music of that electricity, can we discover wormholes to other universes, other iterations of our selves?</span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">One Tango dancer grasps the bow and the other the viola, all four characters involved in the same rhythmic event though from different planes of reality; out of darkness, out of light, the electricity brings them together and to life. Who is calling whom? Who is real and who is not? </span></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
<br />
<div class="p2">
<span class="s1"></span><br /></div>
zoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16526746200112764467noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3841684678223214738.post-89910396203080141692013-06-27T11:10:00.000-07:002013-06-27T11:10:44.561-07:00Made By Hand, Part II<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgivj4QLYeRbkWkAxptKbh1LW34MPPw5WIUlr0iPKZcbqrXaMTOZqcoUwX1pqGaWcY8emsCTC-jO_KbZG-JUdC-O34jWRM8A1KFUIVSW8N7q8JFbJF29J1apd_DduJBlHxapb8DgqySXw8/s700/Made+By+Hand-+The+Clock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgivj4QLYeRbkWkAxptKbh1LW34MPPw5WIUlr0iPKZcbqrXaMTOZqcoUwX1pqGaWcY8emsCTC-jO_KbZG-JUdC-O34jWRM8A1KFUIVSW8N7q8JFbJF29J1apd_DduJBlHxapb8DgqySXw8/s320/Made+By+Hand-+The+Clock.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Section of the riddle clock created by Devin Montgomery</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /><div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">The Midnight Clock, a fully functioning clock marking 24 hours and the approximate times of sunrise, midday, sunset, and midnight, holds a riddle that teases you to discover and move various keys, in a particular order and at a particular time of day or night, in order to finally discover a hidden compartment. The clock is made for a treasure of your choosing to be hidden inside, the example given being a book.</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">The creator, Devin Montgomery, says:</span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span class="s1">“Fiction is filled with hidden doorways, destinations, and treasures--think of Tolkein’s secret door to Durin, Rawling’s platform 9 3/4, or Lewis’s wardrobe--but we rarely find them in real life. The Midnight Clock changes that.”</span></blockquote>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p1">
<span class="s1">You can join the other supporters of this enterprise <a href="http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1763800459/the-midnight-clock-unlock-the-magic-of-a-good-book?ref=live" target="_blank">here</a>.</span></div>
</div>
zoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16526746200112764467noreply@blogger.com1