Break it.

(RE)

Temple Face – Rachel England – Collage – 2009

For many abstract artists, there is a desire to get to the spirit of the thing rather than committing to a particular mind-set. This work may seem to be an attempt to conceal or distort, but when a recognizable work of art has been altered, there is a desire to get back to the basic understanding of that object; to understand the original intent in conjunction with my intent in altering the work.

Whether religious works of art were originally made as a commission or an act of faith, this iconography of faith has shaped our understanding of God. It also, being a product of this world, will inevitably morph based on the condition of its environment. This work is about seeking the spirit rather than focusing on the flesh, its cravings, and all its delusions. It is an exploration of value, context, displacement, history, visual information, and how we form conclusions based on these ideas.

Source Material

Theories and Documents of Contemporary Art
Pg. 154-164
Valerie Jaudon and Joyce Kozloff
“Art Hysterical Notions of Progress and Culture” (1977-78)

i was sitting indian-
style at dawn when
i heard it out through the
empty window frame

singing in the dry dust
its chirps rang hollow
like freedom and
vaccuous like the weather
seems to be

i saw the grave you
made for our baby
i would have cried
if this thing hadn’t
ever attatched itself behind
my face

ribbon of awarness
pulling like tape

i’m begging for a transfer
into your cabin
i think it’s going to get me killed
even so i’ll never leave you
just think of me
and i’ll be there

i will be as still
as possible when
they come for me
a little less still
once they leave

just think of me
and we’ll be free

(JWSC)

…And then one day

you wake up on a strange planet

and those slim twins, doubt, and regret

whisper from behind you

“you should have praaaaaayed”

and then they tell you a story

it all starts with the big bang

and a whole ton of electricity

and some evolution

and some wars

and some revisionist

retellings of those wars.

They throw in a dash

Of love, but are not unaware

Of the perils of overseasoning

It’s mostly bullshit, when it

Comes to humans. The same

Old stories of the rich getting

Richer, and the poor paying

For it. The worn out old morals

And the neverending exuberance

Of the young who love to hate

Them. And then the story turns

For you. It says, but now in your

Own voice

“the only people who can see you

not praying. Are also not praying”

and that planet with it’s harsh

red sun. With it’s tall green trees

with it’s vast oceans. That planet

where the twins live. That planet

cedes a quenching comfort to your

old bones. There is a boat in the story

now. And it is your wife’s voice.

Saying “We are halfway across,

That dottering old ferryman

Has lost his way again” and you toss

A ring in your water glass. The

Praying continues. As you continue

To smile. Softly, right between loneliness

And joy, never touching eyes

With those with you at the table

“who don’t pray”

We are between two shores, baby.

One is for richer, one is for poorer.

One is where you go on the way to

The city, and the other, on the way

To the farm, and we don’t remember

Which way we went on 95.

Did we have something to go get

Or something to leave? Is that why

We all sipped from the water when

The current slowed. And so when

The storm came, didn’t know

Where to row. When it threw

Our bodies across time and space

Across the myths and histories

Back across those ware and petty

Loves and frightful dreams.

And on out the other side.

Onto the shore of a river

on a strange Planet.  You see

the Potomac in front of you,

and feel the tight pinch

of a crayfish claw on your

right and then left earlobes.

This is all impossible, because

The Potomac is on earth, and

What are the chances of bilateral

Symmetry being found

On organic lifeforms from distant planets?

So you go back to sleep,

As the creatures crawl out of the muck

And clean your bones.

(DJP)

That silly moon
spins

With us
Around the

Sun
We revolve perpetually
In order to
Stand.

(RE)

I have yet to decide whether abstracting my story does more harm than good.  Maybe it does nothing at all.  Maybe that is the shame of it.

I see writing on the inside

Of this bag

As I’m jostled

In this sack

I see writing.

I start to read the words

As I thump against

The back of the giant

Like so many potatoes

On so many farmers backs at dusk.

You can harvest potatoes

In the dark, and alone.

Because you do it

With your hands,

As if fingering the stitching

Of the inside of the bag

That you’re in.

As if fingering the stitching

And seeing through the patterned

Fibers to street lights.

And once your eyes

Have calmed from that

Brightness, once you can pick up

The nuances of the darkened world

The make of the sedan you just passed

The “r-t-h S-T” of a street sign.

Eye shine off a lover.

And you can smell warm asphalt.

You can smell the sweet organic

Rotting from warm waste containers.

You can feel the implications

Of wind against the burlap.

You can surprise yourself

When these words coalesce

Into a sentence or sentences.

And you can read those words

And the meaning, like so many suns

Rising from the darkened edges

Of so many planets, become true

And pure.                         “i-f-t-h S-T”

And sometimes it says

“A Heavy breast”

And sometimes is says

“lick a stone! Fall in love!”

And in one place it says

“At the Cooper Union of the soul”

And the words are smudged

“Falconerbon maladied”

And in the last places without remorse

“You’re going to die here”

(DJP)

Don’t Despair

There is a place we’ve never been

And you might get to go

Deep in space.

And closer to home, inside you

Over everyone’s heads, and between

Them. Like the air that passes through

Everything, indeed a Holy Ghost!

And you are there with that mystery!

Like a Polaroid of you and someone

Vaguely familiar. Like the words

On the back, clearly written

In black felt pen upon the thin

White plastic backing.

That you finger

As your eyes and the beech tree

Out front, fuck.

(DJP)

As I slowly fall on my sword

I hear a board’s clap against

The skull of a man. I imagine

Him falling, but not far, since

He’s on his knees. I see his                         eyes

And that’s why you’re here.

I want to tell you about a dead

Man’s eyes.  Men have said

Since time immemorial that

It’s a blank stare. Men have

Said that the body was limp

And they were wrong! Men

Have insisted that they’ve

Gone to a better place, too!

But no. They are still here.

They are relaxed in the best

Sense. And their eyes, are not

Blank. Their eyes see everything.

Including the day, when they fell

On their sword. Hearing (clap)

(DJP)

(RE)