Robert Ryman
Untitled
1969
acrylic on Mylar panel
Sweet Seals For You, Always
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if i look back, i am lost

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Robert Ryman
Untitled
1969
acrylic on Mylar panel
From: Andrea Applebee, Mercy Athena, Works on paper by Lorna McIntosh, The Cahiers Series No. 35, Sylph Editions, London, 2020 [© Andrea Applebee, Lorna McIntosh]
Lynn Silverman. Site investigations: Site #5, Lake Eyre, South Australia, 1979
Sainsbury's WInter Mixture packaging, 1960s. From the Sainsbury Archive.
Frame 313 from Abraham Zapruder’s 8mm home movie of the assassination of President John F. Kennedy in Dallas in 1963 (printed in 2004).
Photo : ©The LIFE Magazine Collection/Courtesy International Center of Photography, New York
Artnews
John Cage. VI (plate, folio 18) from Mushroom Book, 1972
John Cage. VI from Mushroom Book, 1972
As the Ruin Falls
by C.S. Lewis
All this is flashy rhetoric about loving you. I never had a selfless thought since I was born. I am mercenary and self-seeking through and through: I want God, you, all friends, merely to serve my turn.
Peace, re-assurance, pleasure are the goals I seek, I cannot crawl one inch outside my proper skin: I talk of love — a scholar's parrot may talk Greek — But, self-imprisoned, always end where I begin.
Only that now you have taught me (but how late) my lack, I see the chasm. And everything you are was making My heart into a bridge by which I might get back From exile, and grow man. And now the bridge is breaking.
For this I bless you as the ruin falls. The pains You give me are more precious than all other gains.
Jim Himes (American, b. 1950s, Cleveland, OH, USA) - Heroin, 1974, published by C.P. Family Publishers, Drawings: Ink
Stan Shuttleworth (American, 1916-1980s, b. USA, d. Redlands, San Bernardino County, CA, USA) - From the Thompson Collection, Photography
Balazs Gardi (Hungarian-American, b. 1975, Budapest, Hungary, based USA) - Glass Fire (B/W), 2020, Photography
David Wojahn, The Falling Hour
These Hands, if Not Gods
by Natalie Diaz
Haven’t they moved like rivers — like Glory, like light — over the seven days of your body?
And wasn’t that good? Them at your hips —
isn’t this what God felt when he pressed together the first Beloved: Everything. Fever. Vapor. Atman. Pulsus. Finally, a sin worth hurting for. Finally, a sweet, a You are mine.
It is hard not to have faith in this: from the blue-brown clay of night these two potters crushed and smoothed you into being — grind, then curve — built your form up —
atlas of bone, fields of muscle, one breast a fig tree, the other a nightingale, both Morning and Evening.
O, the beautiful making they do — of trigger and carve, suffering and stars —
Aren’t they, too, the dark carpenters of your small church? Have they not burned on the altar of your belly, eaten the bread of your thighs, broke you to wine, to ichor, to nectareous feast?
Haven’t they riveted your wrists, haven’t they had you at your knees?
And when these hands touched your throat, showed you how to take the apple and the rib, how to slip a thumb into your mouth and taste it all, didn’t you sing out their ninety-nine names—
Zahir, Aleph, Hands-time-seven, Sphinx, Leonids, locomotura, Rubidium, August, and September — And when you cried out, O, Prometheans, didn’t they bring fire?
These hands, if not gods, then why when you have come to me, and I have returned you to that from which you came — bright mud, mineral-salt — why then do you whisper O, my Hecatonchire. My Centimani. My hundred-handed one?
Sticks and stalks pushed into muddy lake bottom, Andy Goldsworthy, Yorkshire Sculpture Park (1987)
Wilhelmina Barns-Graham (British, 1912-2004), Tension Series - Hot Day, 1968. Oil on board, 16 1/4 x 16 1/4 in.
Alvaro Arteche Gutiérrez (Spanish, b. Barcelona, Spain, based Ibid) - Photography