Andy Warhol’s Upper East Side Studio Hits the Market For $10 Million

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Photo via Cushman & Wakefield

During the early ’60s, Andy Warhol was working primarily as a commercial artist, having just begun to assert himself as a fine artist and local provocateur. In January 1963, he moved into an Upper East Side studio, his first private space, which was then an affordable fire house, available for only $150 per month. More than half a century later and following years of gentrification, Warhol’s historic site, 159 East 87th Street, is on the market for a steep $9,975,000 and “offers a developer a blank canvass [sic] to create boutique condominiums, a mixed-use rental or a luxury townhouse.” 

Six months before the iconic pop artist moved into his UES space, he’d established a polarizing name with his newly debuted Campbell Soup Can paintings. “In 1963, [Warhol] was only just becoming known as a fine artist, so it’s no wonder he didn’t invest in a fancier studio,” said Warhol biographer Blake Gopnik to Artnet NewsThe building was “a wreck, with leaks in the roof and holes in the floors, but it was better than trying to make serious paintings in the wood-paneled living-room of his Victorian townhouse, as he’d done for the previous couple of years.” Despite the shifty environment, Warhol still managed to create several pieces from his revered Death and Disaster series, as well as portraits of Elizabeth Taylor and Marilyn Monroe.

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Brillo Box (Soap Pads), 1964 (Photo via MoMA)

Warhol’s lease ended the following May, more than half a year before he moved into his legendary Silver Factory and unveiled his 1964 sculpture exhibition, Brillo Boxes—work philosopher Arthur Danto labeled the end of art. “What Warhol taught was that there is no way of telling the difference [between art and non-art] merely by looking,” Danto said. “The eye, so prized an aesthetic organ when it was felt that the difference between art and non-art was visible, was philosophically of no use whatever when the differences proved instead to be invisible.”

The two-story building, located between Lexington and Third Avenue, is currently being used for art storage and marketed by Cushman & Wakefield as a “boutique development site”—a far cry from its humble Warholian roots and testament to NYC’s ever-evolving real estate landscape.

Klein Sun Gallery to Exhibit Ren Hang’s Controversial ‘Athens Love’ Series

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Athens Love

In keeping with his voyeuristic style, Beijing-based artist Ren Hang pursues the stripped-down nature of his subjects by celebrating their naked figures in his most recent project, Athens Love. To commemorate this body of work, Hang, a photographer and poet, will release a 68-page monograph at his solo show, opening March 24 at SoHo’s Klein Sun Gallery.

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Athens Love

Having received the Third Annual Terna Prize for Contemporary Art in 2010, Hang’s controversial work centers heavily on the dynamics of eroticism, and Athens Love is no exception. The project follows Hang’s journey through Athens and other parts of Attica, Greece, during his artist residency in April, 2015. By juxtaposing human skin against raw, colorful landscapes, Hang’s NSFW imagery, diaristic and stylized, captures his friends’ bodies casually posed in harmony with nature.

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Athens Love

In one polarizing image, equally playful and provocative, Hang features his nude friend peeing into a cacti patch; The photo is staged against the saturated Mediterranean landscape and explores man’s relationship with nature, captured to look almost like a surreal, faded memory.

‘Athens Love’ will be on display at Klein Sun Gallery from March 24 through April 30. Ren Hang will attend a book signing of his monograph at Dashwood Books on March 25 from 6 – 8 p.m. 

How Photographer Duo Synchrodogs Risked Their Lives for Stunning New Series, ‘Supernatural’

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Supernatural (2015)

In 2008, Ukrainian photographers Tania Shcheglova and Roman Noven were living in two different cities, each eight hours apart. The odds of the pair meeting organically in real life were slim to none, but after a chance encounter on a photography website, the duo ultimately joined forces to form a creative partnership, Synchrodogs. Since their collaborations began eight years ago, Synchrodogs’ experimental style of photography has gained the attention of countless outlets and major brands, collecting editorial credits from Dazed and Confused and Vice, while shooting for brands like Kenzo and Urban Outfitters.

Commissioned by Dallas Contemporary to create their first solo show last year, the duo embarked on a road trip across America to indulge in their exhibitionist style of photography, capturing the stunning landscapes of the Wild West. Though it literally almost killed them— nearly dying from dehydration, almost getting struck by lighting and dodging a pit of snakes— the daring pair managed to produce their latest body of work from the trip, called Supernatural (2015). True to their signature approach, Shcheglova posed as the series’ central subject, captured through Noven’s lens.

The project will be displayed at their upcoming, second solo show, opening March 24 at Amsterdam’s Bright Side Gallery, along with two other projects Reverie Sleep (2013) and Animalism, Naturalism (2012). In anticipation, we chatted with Shcheglov to talk about Synchrodogs’ road trip, their experiments with lucid dreaming, and the impressive mileage they racked up on their cross country adventure.


How did you come up with the name “Synchrodogs?”

‘Synchro’ stands for our sameness when it comes to taste and perception in life. We are also fair friends of humans, while loving nature and endless landscapes most of all—that is where ‘dogs’ came from.

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Supernatural (2015)

Do you and Roman ever disagree over a concept?

Never over a concept or global thing—only about small details, as we are two perfectionists who always strive to make everything better than necessary. Eventually it only helps.

Why do you prefer shooting each other instead of using models?

Because our art is about deep exploration of our inner selves, juxtaposed with the natural world. It would be irrational to work with other people when trying to get a personal Earth-related experience.

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Supernatural (2015)

How intense was your planning before your road trip to make Supernatural?

We worked on this project for nearly a year, but the route we were to take was only partially certain for us. We were relying on our own intuition a lot and literally went to every turn that seemed promising, which led us to a record-breaking number of kilometers we passed in one month—6,500 [or 4,038 miles].

What were the most inspiring places you came across during your excursion?

It’s hard to name the most inspiring, but easier to tell which ones triggered a lot of adrenaline. The favorites in this sense were a narrow canyon with lots of barely visible camouflaged snakes, endless desert where we nearly died without water half way back, and a thunderstorm in Colorado when a lightning bolt hit the ground right in front of our car.

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Supernatural (2015)

Can you tell us more about your experiments with lucid dreaming for Reverie Sleep

It was not exactly lucid dreaming; it’s a kind of meditation technique we developed over years and practiced while trying to fall asleep. It arouses some instant images to come to our mind, like some [static] movie scenes with no action. The most important moment [of the process] is to make yourself not lose it. You have to wake yourself up and make a note of what you have just seen; if you continue watching the scene you simply fall asleep and never remember it again.

How did those dreams translate into the photographs for Reverie Sleep?

Usually those dreams are more realistic and then it’s possible to convey with photography, but some dreams are impossible to be recreated. [We] need other technologies to be developed better [to recreate these dreams] and we’re waiting for that moment to come.

Gravy Studio’s Polaroid Exhibition to Celebrate Instant Photography in the Digital Age

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Photography: Matt Schwartz

Criticism about digital photography has been beaten to a pulp—an endless argument fueled by nostalgia for an era that’s simply unrealistic in today’s environment where photo developing stores are shuttering and film is essentially unaffordable. This is why it’s important to support the rare artists who’ve built their entire practice on the abandoned medium.

In collaboration with Pop Up Polaroid Creator Kara Khan, Philadelphia’s Gravy Studio has curated a group show, “Instant Classic,” featuring a selection of these contemporary instant photographers, including Matt Ashby, Brian Bruno, Le Milford, Matt Schwartz, Emma Stern. Their work all documents modern events through an immediate, vintage lens, creating a dynamic juxtaposition between the past and present.

“In an age of endless reproduction and digital manipulation, ‘Instant Classic’ reveals the beauty of the instant photograph,” Gravy said. “Not in spite of their limitations and imperfections, but because those surprises are frozen in time—captured and preserved for decades to come, just as they are.”

The show opens tomorrow, March 4, from 6 p.m. to 10 p.m. and will feature music by Philly DJ Extra Water. (Maybe Philadelphia really is the next big thing?

David Lynch’s ‘Blue Velvet’ Will Return to Cinemas for its 30th Anniversary

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‘Blue Velvet’ 30th Anniversary Poster

David Lynch’s 1984 film noir classic Blue Velvet will celebrate its 30-year anniversary with a rerelease to select cinemas in the United States and United Kingdom. Starting March 25th through March 31st, the Kyle MacLachlan-led movie is scheduled to be shown at NYC’s Film Forum, with more screenings coming to theaters before its big September birthday. With a freshly designed poster, above, and an official reissue trailer, below, Blue Velvet is getting the accolades a Lynchian standard deserves.

 

Revisit Björk’s ‘Black Lake’ Music Video with Exclusive Behind-the-Scenes Doc

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Björk is one of the rare contemporary artists whose work is the product of incredibly dense collaboration, with which she’s always deeply involved with. On the outside, we see a simple mastered track or a polished video clip, but these efforts are always backed by remarkable innovation and dedication. One-dimensional work is simply not in the galaxy of Björk’s otherworldly interests.

Last year’s retrospective at MoMA gave insight into the 50-year-old’s mid-career legacy, featuring an exclusively commissioned music video for her Vulnicura cut, “Black Lake,” directed by Andrew Thomas Huang. Together, Huang and Björk created an immersive installation, the centerpiece, which complemented her visceral track and highlighted the singer’s Iceland native.

In an exclusive behind-the-scenes documentary, premiering today on The Creators Project, we’re invited through the making of “Black Lake,” from its concept to final conception. Huang explains the development of the visuals, which began as a more stylized treatment and transformed into a “performance-heavy piece” to reflect the song’s stark sonic nature. Revisit the intense 2015 standout, below:

 

Japanese Design Legend Issey Miyake Unveils Harmonious Home Collection

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Pause for Harmony

Issey Miyake, the fashion legend famous for his angular silhouettes and innovative pleats, has teamed up with Finnish design house Iittala for a 30-piece collection of home goods, all of which are now available in the MoMA Design Store. “Design is not for philosophy, it’s for life,” Miyake once profoundly stated, and what better way to implement this notion than with a beautiful body of work accessible to the everyday consumer? Luxury is arguably worthless if it’s untouchable to the majority.

The collaboration is a marriage of Miyake’s graphic aesthetic with Iittala’s signature Scandinavian simplicity, manifesting into everything from subtle ceramic tea light holders to bold pentagonal table mats. There’s a clear sense of serenity throughout the collection, something echoed by the website’s fixation with harmony. If you’re a self-proclaimed minimalist on a budget, the days of salivating over Miyake’s work, but never pulling the trigger are over. Learn more about the timeless project, below:

 


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(h/t DesignMilk)

 

Love’s Licks: The Most Heartbreaking and Romantic Poems

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Someday time will die and love will bury it.

If there’s one truth that lingers between all of us, one universal belief held sacred, it’s that love is an all-consuming fire. It’s a force that has the power to, not only rid us of our sanity and possess our beings in a way that unravels the world before it, but can also provide the most immense and profound pleasure humanly possible. Its depths of despair and highs of potent sensation drive us mad and leave us helpless in its clutches.

Yes, love can be the most isolating and desolate ache that rests between your bones, but when its reciprocated, when you’re entrenched in a passionate mutual affection, it’s the world’s most delicious experience—and one that we desire forever. Love isn’t just a feeling but something we hold within us, even in the pain it inflicts. And whether it’s the elation of love’s ecstasy or the harrowing heartbreak it may cause, most of the best poetry—and art overall—has stemmed from those very sentiments.

So as today is Valentine’s Day, let’s peruse some of the best poems about love—its sorrows and its triumphs, from Anne Sexton and Richard Brautigan to Charles Bukowski and Pablo Neruda. Grab yourself a whiskey and break out the tissues.

LOVE SONG by Ted Hughes 

He loved her and she loved him
His kisses sucked out her whole past and future or tried to
He had no other appetite
She bit him she gnawed him she sucked
She wanted him complete inside her
Safe and sure forever and ever
Their little cries fluttered into the curtains

Her eyes wanted nothing to get away
Her looks nailed down his hands his wrists his elbows
He gripped her hard so that life
Should not drag her from that moment
He wanted all future to cease
He wanted to topple with his arms round her
Off that moment’s brink and into nothing
Or everlasting or whatever there was

Her embrace was an immense press
To print him into her bones
His smiles were the garrets of a fairy palace
Where the real world would never come
Her smiles were spider bites
So he would lie still till she felt hungry
His words were occupying armies
Her laughs were an assassin’s attempts
His looks were bullets daggers of revenge
His glances were ghosts in the corner with horrible secrets

His whispers were whips and jackboots
Her kisses were lawyers steadily writing
His caresses were the last hooks of a castaway
Her love-tricks were the grinding of locks
And their deep cries crawled over the floors
Like an animal dragging a great trap
His promises were the surgeon’s gag
Her promises took the top off his skull
She would get a brooch made of it
His vows pulled out all her sinews
He showed her how to make a love-knot
Her vows put his eyes in formalin
At the back of her secret drawer
Their screams stuck in the wall

Their heads fell apart into sleep like the two halves
Of a lopped melon, but love is hard to stop

In their entwined sleep they exchanged arms and legs
In their dreams their brains took each other hostage

In the morning they wore each other’s face.

HAVING A COKE WITH YOU by Frank O’Hara

is even more fun than going to San Sebastian, Irún, Hendaye, Biarritz, Bayonne
or being sick to my stomach on the Travesera de Gracia in Barcelona
partly because in your orange shirt you look like a better happier St. Sebastian
partly because of my love for you, partly because of your love for yoghurt
partly because of the fluorescent orange tulips around the birches
partly because of the secrecy our smiles take on before people and statuary
it is hard to believe when I’m with you that there can be anything as still
as solemn as unpleasantly definitive as statuary when right in front of it
in the warm New York 4 o’clock light we are drifting back and forth
between each other like a tree breathing through its spectacles
and the portrait show seems to have no faces in it at all, just paint
you suddenly wonder why in the world anyone ever did them

I look
at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world
except possibly for the Polish Rider occasionally and anyway it’s in the Frick
which thank heavens you haven’t gone to yet so we can go together the first time
and the fact that you move so beautifully more or less takes care of Futurism
just as at home I never think of the Nude Descending a Staircase or
at a rehearsal a single drawing of Leonardo or Michelangelo that used to wow me
and what good does all the research of the Impressionists do them
when they never got the right person to stand near the tree when the sun sank
or for that matter Marino Marini when he didn’t pick the rider as carefully
as the horse

it seems they were all cheated of some marvelous experience
which is not going to go wasted on me which is why I am telling you about it

ADMONITIONS TO A SPECIAL PERSON by Anne Sexton

Watch out for power,
for its avalanche can bury you,
snow, snow, snow, smothering your mountain.

Watch out for hate,
it can open its mouth and you’ll fling yourself out
to eat off your leg, an instant leper.

Watch out for friends,
because when you betray them,
as you will,
they will bury their heads in the toilet
and flush themselves away.

Watch out for intellect,
because it knows so much it knows nothing
and leaves you hanging upside down,
mouthing knowledge as your heart
falls out of your mouth.

Watch out for games, the actor’s part,
the speech planned, known, given,
for they will give you away
and you will stand like a naked little boy,
pissing on your own child-bed.

Watch out for love
(unless it is true,
and every part of you says yes including the toes) ,
it will wrap you up like a mummy,
and your scream won’t be heard
and none of your running will end.

Love? Be it man. Be it woman.
It must be a wave you want to glide in on,
give your body to it, give your laugh to it,
give, when the gravelly sand takes you,
your tears to the land. To love another is something
like prayer and can’t be planned, you just fall
into its arms because your belief undoes your disbelief.

Special person,
if I were you I’d pay no attention
to admonitions from me,
made somewhat out of your words
and somewhat out of mine.
A collaboration.

I do not believe a word I have said,
except some, except I think of you like a young tree
with pasted-on leaves and know you’ll root
and the real green thing will come.

Let go. Let go.
Oh special person,
possible leaves,
this typewriter likes you on the way to them,
but wants to break crystal glasses
in celebration,
for you,
when the dark crust is thrown off
and you float all around
like a happened balloon.

I CRAVE YOUR MOUTH by Pablo Neruda

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,
and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
Like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

BOO, FOREVER by Richard Brautigan 

Spinning like a ghost
on the bottom of a
top,

I’m haunted by all
the space that I
will live without
you.

HAUNTED by Sam Shepard

I’m haunted by your scent
When I’m talking to someone else
I’m haunted by your eyes
In the middle of brushing my teeth

I’m haunted by your hair
By your skin
When you’re not around

Are you visiting me
Am I dreaming you up

SONG FOR LOTTA by Frank O’Hara

You’re not really sick
if you’re not sick with love
there is no medicine

the busy grass can grow
again but love’s a witch
that poisons the earth

you’re not really sick
if you think of love as
a summer’s vacation

I’m going to die unless
my love soon chases
the clouds away

and the azure smiles
and browns my strong
belief that love is.

LOVE CROSSES ITS ISLANDS by Pablo Peruda

Love crosses its islands, from grief to grief,
it sets its roots, watered with tears,and no one––
no one––can escape the heart’s progress
as it runs, silent and carnivorous.

You and I search for a wide valley, for another planet
where the salt wouldn’t touch your hair,
where sorrows couldn’t grow because of anything I did,
where bread could live and not grow old.

A planet entwined with vistas and foliage,
a plain, a rock, hard and unoccupied:
we wanted to build a strong nest

with our own hands, without hurt or harm or speech,
but love was not like that: love was a lunatic city
with crowds of people blanching on their porches.


FOR JANE: WITH ALL THE LOVE I HAD, WHICH WAS NOT ENOUGH by Charles Bukowski

I pick up the skirt,
I pick up the sparkling beads
in black,
this thing that moved once
around flesh,
and I call God a liar,
I say anything that moved
like that
or knew
my name
could never die
in the common verity of dying,

and I pick
up her lovely
dress,
all her loveliness gone,
and I speak to all the gods,
Jewish gods, Christ-gods,
chips of blinking things,
idols, pills, bread,
fathoms, risks,
knowledgeable surrender,
rats in the gravy of two gone quite mad
without a chance,
hummingbird knowledge, hummingbird chance,
I lean upon this,
I lean on all of this
and I know
her dress upon my arm
but
they will not
give her back to me.

THE INVENTORY OF GOODBYE by Anne Sexton

I have a pack of letters,
I have a pack of memories.
I could cut out the eyes of both.
I could wear them like a patchwork apron.
I could stick them in the washer, the drier,
and maybe some of the pain would float off like dirt?
Perhaps down the disposal I could grind up the loss.
Besides – what a bargain – no expensive phone calls.
No lengthy trips on planes in the fog.
No manicky laughter or blessing from an odd-lot priest.
That priest is probably still floating on a fog pillow.
Blessing us. Blessing us.

Am I to bless the lost you,
sitting here with my clumsy soul?
Propaganda time is over.
I sit here on the spike of truth.
No one to hate except the slim fish of memory
that slides in and out of my brain.
No one to hate except the acute feel of my nightgown
brushing my body like a light that has gone out.
It recalls the kiss we invented, tongues like poems,
meeting, returning, inviting, causing a fever of need.

Laughter, maps, cassettes, touch singing its path –
all to be broken and laid away in a tight strongbox.
The monotonous dead clog me up and there is only
black done in black that oozes from the strongbox.
I must disembowel it and then set the heart, the legs,
of two who were one upon a large woodpile
and ignite, as I was once ignited, and let it whirl
into flame, reaching the sky
making it dangerous with its red.

ROMEO AND JULIET by Richard Brautigan

If you will die for me,
I will die for you
and our graves will be like two lovers washing
their clothes together
in a laundromat
If you will bring the soap
I will bring the bleach.

POEM (TO A) by Harold Pinter

I shall miss you so much when I’m dead,
The loveliest of smiles,
The softness of your body in our bed.

My everlasting bride,
Remember that when I am dead,
You are forever alive in my heart and my head.


EXTINGUISH BOTH MY EYES: I SEE YOU STILL by Rainer Maria Rilke

Extinguish both my eyes: I see you still;
Slam shut my ears: I can still hear you talking;
Without my mouth i can implore your will
And without feet: Towards you i keep on walking.
Break off my arms: I shall still hold you tight;
My heart will yet embrace you all the same.
Suppress my heart: My brain knows no deterrent;
And if at last you set my brain aflame
I carry you still on my bloodstream’s current.

ANIMALS by Frank O’Hara

Have you forgotten what we were like then
when were were still first rate
and the day came fat with an apple in its mouth

it’s no use worrying about Time
but we did have a few tricks up our sleeves
and turned some sharp corners

the whole pasture looked like our meal
we didn’t need speedometers
we could manage cocktails out of ice and water

I wouldn’t want to be faster
or greener than now if you were with me O you
were the best of all my days

TILL THEN MY WINDOWS ACHE by Pablo Neruda 

Matilde, where are you? Down there I noticed,
under my necktie and just above the heart,
a certain pang of grief between the ribs,
you were gone that quickly.

I needed the light of your energy,
I looked around, devouring hope.
I watched the void without you that is like a house,
nothing left but tragic windows.

Out of sheer taciturnity the ceiling listens
to the fall of the ancient leafless rain,
to feathers, to whatever the night imprisoned:

so I wait for you like a lonely house
till you will see me again and live in me.
Till then my windows ache.

SOMEWHERE I HAVE NEVER TRAVELLED, GLADLY BEYOND by e.e. cummings

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)

nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands

THE HARBOR by Richard Brautigan

Torn apart by the storms of love
and put back together by the calms
of love,
I lie here in a harbor
that does not know
where your body ends
and my body begins.

Fish swim between our ribs
and sea gulls cry like mirrors
to our blood.

FOR JOHN WHO BEGS ME NOT TO ENQUIRE FURTHER by Anne Sexton

Not that it was beautiful,
but that, in the end, there was
a certain sense of order there;
something worth learning
in that narrow diary of my mind,
in the commonplaces of the asylum
where the cracked mirror
or my own selfish death
outstared me.

And if I tried
to give you something else,
something outside of myself,
you would not know
that the worst of anyone
can be, finally,
an accident of hope.
I tapped my own head;
it was a glass, an inverted bowl.
It is a small thing
to rage in your own bowl.

At first it was private.
Then it was more than myself;
it was you, or your house
or your kitchen.

And if you turn away
because there is no lesson here
I will hold my awkward bowl,
with all its cracked stars shining
like a complicated lie,
and fasten a new skin around it
as if I were dressing an orange
or a strange sun.

Not that it was beautiful,
but that I found some order there.
There ought to be something special
for someone
in this kind of hope.
This is something I would never find
in a lovelier place, my dear,
although your fear is anyone’s fear,
like an invisible veil between us all…
and sometimes in private,
my kitchen, your kitchen,
my face, your face.

Sonnets 04: Only Until This Cigarette Is Ended by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Only until this cigarette is ended,
A little moment at the end of all,
While on the floor the quiet ashes fall,
And in the firelight to a lance extended,
Bizarrely with the jazzing music blended,
The broken shadow dances on the wall,
I will permit my memory to recall
The vision of you, by all my dreams attended.
And then adieu,—farewell!—the dream is done.
Yours is a face of which I can forget
The color and the features, every one,
The words not ever, and the smiles not yet;
But in your day this moment is the sun
Upon a hill, after the sun has set.

 THE LOVERS by Rainer Maria Rilke

See how in their veins all becomes spirit:
into each other they mature and grow.
Like axles, their forms tremblingly orbit,
round which it whirls, bewitching and aglow.
Thirsters, and they receive drink,
watchers, and see: they receive sight.

Let them into one another sink
so as to endure each other outright.

PARIS by Harold Pinter

The curtain white in folds,
She walks two steps and turns,
The curtain still, the light
Staggers in her eyes.

The lamps are golden.
Afternoon leans, silently.
She dances in my life.
The white day burns.

FINISH by Charles Bukowski

We are like roses that have never bothered to
bloom when we should have bloomed and
it is as if
the sun has become disgusted with
waiting.

RAW WITH LOVE by Charles Bukowski

little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won’t flinch and
I won’t blame
you,
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,

I won’t blame you,
instead
I will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents

immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.

little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and I won’t use it
yet.

SONNET 147 by William Shakespeare

My love is as a fever longing still,
For that which longer nurseth the disease;
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
The uncertain sickly appetite to please.
My reason, the physician to my love,
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,
Hath left me, and I desperate now approve
Desire is death, which physic did except.
Past cure I am, now Reason is past care,
And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;
My thoughts and my discourse as madmen’s are,
At random from the truth vainly expressed;
For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

REAL ESTATE by Richard Brautigan

I have emotions
that are like newspapers that
read themselves.

I go for days at a time
trapped in the want ads.

I feel as if I am an ad
for the sale of a haunted house:
18 rooms
$37,000
I’m yours
ghosts and all.


IT IS HERE by Harold Pinter

(for A)

What sound was that?

I turn away, into the shaking room.

What was that sound that came in on the dark?
What is this maze of light it leaves us in?
What is this stance we take, 
To turn away and then turn back?
What did we hear?
It was the breath we took when we first met.

Listen. It is here.

LOVE INCARNATE by Frank Bidart

To all those driven berserk or humanized by love this is offered,
for I need help deciphering my dream.
When we love our lord is LOVE.
When I recall that at the fourth hour of the night, watched by shining stars,
LOVE at last became incarnate, the memory is horror.
In his hands smiling LOVE held my burning heart,
and in his arms, the body whose greeting pierces my soul,
now wrapped in blood red, sleeping.
He made him wake. He ordered him to eat my heart.
He ate my burning heart.
He ate it submissively, as if afraid, as LOVE wept.

IF YOU FORFET ME by Pablo Neruda

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.

American Artist Ellsworth Kelly, Purveyor of Colorful Abstraction, Dies at 92

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Colors for a Large Wall. 1951 | MoMA

American artist Ellsworth Kelly, one of the most influential painters of the past century, has died at age 92 in his Spencertown, New York home. His death was announced today by Matthew Marks of Manhattan’s Matthew Marks Gallery, a longtime home to Kelly’s many iconic works.

After World War II, the artist began honing the distinctive style he’s now praised for—one that was a reaction to New York’s abstract expressionist movement in the ’50s. While artists within this creative circle favored the use of color as a means to wildly display their uninhibited emotions, Kelly relished in pure, strong shapes and brilliant colors. “I feel that I like color in its strongest sense,” Kelly said to NPR in 2013. “I don’t like mixed colors that much, like plum color or deep, deep colors that are hard to define. I liked red, yellow, blue, black and white.”

Kelly, who’s survived by longtime partner Jack Shear, will be remembered for his seven ripe decades of artistic contributions, all of which are currently displayed in global galleries from Houston to Berlin, Paris to Boston. He will be revered as the postwar visionary who laid the foundation for a wave of minimalism and ultimately proved the power of plainness. See a selection of Kelly’s paintings, below: