The complete works of my favorite artist, Robert Rauschenberg, at the Gagosian

"He was fantastic, a thriller, one who inspired generations of other artists ...to be promiscuous in their approach to art and life but also to be formally exacting, to be cool-eyed in their thinking but morally tender"  


Click HERE to see the NYTimes article about the Gagosian exhibit, on display until 12/18/10.

a quote that's been on my mind...

Stop thinking that this is all there is...Realize that for every ongoing war and religious outrage and environmental devastation and bogus Iraqi attack plan, there are a thousand counterbalancing acts of staggering generosity and humanity and art and beauty happening all over the world, right now, on a breathtaking scale, from flower box to cathedral...Resist the temptation to drown in fatalism, to shake your head and sigh and just throw in the karmic towel...Realize that this is the perfect moment to change the energy of the world, to step right up and crank your personal volume; right when it all seems dark and bitter and offensive and acrimonious and conflicted and bilious...there's your opening. Remember magic. And, finally, believe you are part of a groundswell, a resistance, a seemingly small but actually very, very large impending karmic overhaul, a great shift, the beginning of something important and potent and unstoppable.

--Mark Morford

Vegetarian Thanksgiving

I know its not quite Thanksgiving yet, but I couldn't resist--how delish do these recipes look?!

Jackson Hotel by Lynda Hull : The Poetry Foundation [poem] : Find Poems and Poets. Discover Poetry.

this poem just broke my heart a little bit!

Jackson Hotel

BY LYNDA HULL

Sometimes after hours of wine I can almost see

the night gliding in low off the harbor

down the long avenues of shop windows

past mannequins, perfect in their gestures.

I leave some water steaming on the gas ring

and sometimes I can slip from my body,

almost find the single word to prevent evenings

that absolve nothing, a winter lived alone

and cold. Rooms where you somehow marry

the losses of strangers that tremble

on the walls like the hands

of the dancer next door, luminous

with Methedrine, she taps walls for hours

murmuring about the silver she swears

lines the building, the hallways

where each night drunks stammer their

usual rosary until they come to rest

beneath the tarnished numbers, the bulbs

that star each ceiling.

I must tell you I am afraid to sit here

losing myself to the hour’s slow erasure

until I know myself only by this cold weight,

this hand on my lap, palm up.

I want to still the dancer’s hands

in mine, to talk about forgiveness

and what we leave behind—faces

and cities, the small emergencies

of nights. I say nothing, but

leaning on the sill, I watch her leave

at that moment

when the first taxis start rolling

to the lights of Chinatown, powered

by sad and human desire. I watch her fade

down the street until she’s a smudge,

violent in the circle of my breath. A figure

so small I could cup her in my hands.

"Publics and Counterpublic" by Michael Warner (1958)

very interesting essay on the meaning of "the public," a term that is constantly reinterpreted during our internet/media age.

seems pretty relevant, considering that i'm writing this blog, and you're reading it...

http://muse.jhu.edu.ezproxy.bowdoin.edu/journals/public_culture/v014/14.1warner.html