The Art Community and Peanut Butter
February 28, 2010
Several years ago an old friend from college wrote a very successful book of poetry. The book concerned the death of her brother. It was very well received, but for reasons which have continued to bother me. It was a true story. This gave the emotions/experiences expressed in the book a legitimacy. But why? What if the whole experience had been a fiction? Do we need to anchor the story in reality to trust our reactions? Another reaction was that the book was heartwarming. When I lived in Belgium for several years I recall looking around in all the shops for peanut butter. It was difficult to find. And when I found some in a store on the border with the Netherlands I bought several jars. Peanut butter had never tasted so good. It was comfort food. I was living in a foreign country where I found myself alienated, alone, often out of sorts. Its terrible to think that that is what art/poetry has come. Comfort food. Are whole literary careers built on comfort? (I have reread the Sherlock Holmes stories for this reason so I don’t feel immune to it myself.) But serious literature should not be comfortable. It is my impression that much of what passes for the literary world in academia is comfort food. Serious artists/writers should avoid this world like it was poison. There is nothing quite like peanut butter that has all dried out.
The Psycho of Life
February 24, 2010
Gulliver’s Travels in a time of ipods
February 20, 2010
Hollyhocks
February 18, 2010
When I was a wee boy I loved hollyhocks and daisys. Daisys because they reminded me of a weed. And hollyhocks because they grew so high and resembled a small tree. I also liked dandelions and sunflowers. I remember picking dandelions on the way home from school and presenting them to my mother. She always seemed delighted. And immediately put them in a vase.
The smell of her…
February 17, 2010
I created this for my first girlfriend. (Years after our breakup) Her name was Marianne Johnston. I was crazy about her. But I wanted to go off to sea. And find my fortune. Or some story closely related to that. What all young men want to do when they are full with life and themselves. She was the first girl I made laugh. She wore a particular kind of perfume and I can remember one day, years after we had separated, and I was at a party. And I smelled her perfume. It was as if I had been transported back a decade. I was sure she was in the room. I looked around. She wasn’t there. Nor could I locate the source of the perfume. I can remember feeling suddenly very sad.