[formlab]

Wrapped Trees, Christo and Jeanne-Claude, 1997-98

[pidgevorg]

wtf, why would anyone do this? What does this installation say other than "we knew trees need to feel sunlight to come alive in spring so we put garbage bags over them and partially blocked their sunlight, haha"??? This 'artwork' better be super temporary or if not, those trees better be already dead. But even if it doesn't actually harm the trees, it looks like it intends to, like the point is to stifle a living thing's access to what it needs to thrive. The title of the installation should be "Douchebags"

[itscolossal]

Dan Lam Blurs the Lines Between the Alluring and Grotesque in ‘Guttation’

[pidgevorg]

Dear world--more of this type of art, please please please. It actually does all those things that everyone says good art is supposed to do and yet 'critically acclaimed' art rarely does: innovates, pushes boundaries, challenges you, makes you feel something, is true to reality yet also imaginative... and it does all this while entirely bypassing your upper brain functions and hitting you right in the lizard brain. Imagine scrolling on your phone, and suddenly... THIS

Jolts you out of abstraction lala land and right into your body. When was the last time an 'objet d'art' challenged your brain stem?

[pidgevorg]

how I have often imagined your return, dense fields swamped in footprints black with mud - and the moon radiant in sadstill waters as if mistakes were never made, and I - windwoken, something to not look at, a kingdom of hands and their reaching - you swim through waters dragging candles in your wake, they go out one by one and you never arrive you were never real

--excerpts from poem by @smakkabagms, original here: https://www.tumblr.com/smakkabagms/732661238398697472/how-i-have-often-imagined-your-return-dense

[itscolossal]

Pat Perry Frames the Earnest and Eerie Moments of Midwestern Life in ‘Which World’

[pidgevorg]

Home, as stays in your memory with feelings you can't describe or define. This one is my favorite, it's quintessential Midwest:

("Which World" by Pat Perry)

[pidgevorg]

A razor's sharp edge is hard to cross-- that, poets say, is the difficulty of the path. - It has no sound or touch, no appearance, taste, or smell; It is without beginning or end, undecaying and eternal

from the Katha Upanishad, translated by Patrick Olivelle

[pidgevorg]

If you know that one single day or one single night of Brahma lasts more than four billion years, you understand day and night. - When day comes, all things emerge from the depths of unmanifest nature; when night comes, all things dissolve into the unmanifest again. - These multitudes of beings, in an endless, beginningless cycle, helplessly dissolve when Brahma's night comes and emerge once more at his dawn.

Bhagavad Gita 8.17-8.19, translated by Stephen Mitchell

[pidgevorg]

Her brilliant flame has become visible once more; she spreads herself out, driving back the formless black abyss. As one sets up the stake in a sacrifice, anointing and adorning it with colored ornaments, so the daughter of the sky sets up her many-colored light. - We have crossed to the farther bank of this darkness; radiant Dawn spreads her webs. Smiling like a lover who wishes to win his way, she shines forth and with her lovely face awakens us to happiness.

Rig Veda 1.92 (verses 5-6) translated by Wendy Doniger

She sets herself on fire daily to sacrifice herself to herself, with a lothario smile? Not sure if this is gruesome or just badass beyond words....

[pidgevorg]

All moveables of wonder, from all parts, Are here-- The Wax-work, Clock-work, all the marvelous craft Of modern Merlins, All out-o'-the-way, far-fetched, perverted things, All freaks of nature, all Promethean thoughts Of man, his dullness, madness, and their feats All jumbled up together, to compose A Parliament of Monsters.

from The Prelude: Book VII, by William Wordsworth

[pidgevorg]

Gloom was round us. Thy gleaming eyes, thy eyes gleaming anguish gave me. - Veils of darkness they vanquished me. I am life-cursed and love-bereaved.

from The New Lay of the Volsungs by J.R.R. Tolkien (bet you didn’t know he wrote epic poetry!)

[pidgevorg]

When I think of the patience I have had back in the dark before I remember or knew it was night until the light came ... how did this haste begin this little time at any time this reading by lightning scarcely a word this nothing this heaven

from “Just This” by W. S. Merwin

[pidgevorg]

I will spread your flesh on the mountains and fill the valleys with your remains. I will drench the land with your flowing blood all the way to the mountains, and the ravines will be filled with your flesh. When I snuff you out, I will cover the heavens and darken their stars.

Ezekiel 32:5-7, New International Version

Not your usual inspiration Bible quote. Somehow no one ever quotes the parts where Yahweh throws a hissy fit and talks smack... but it’s kind of poetic? in a gruesome sort of way?

Now I really want a Bible Tarantino movie...

[pidgevorg]

Repeat that, repeat, Cuckoo, bird, and open ear wells, heart-springs, delightfully sweet, With a ballad, with a ballad, a rebound Off trundled timber and scoops of the hillside ground, hollow hollow hollow ground: The whole landscape flushes on a sudden at a sound.

by Gerard Manley Hopkins

[pidgevorg]

Krishna entered the room where Uttaraa lay. Midwives and physicians were in attendance, silent and helpless. The room was orderly with rows of water pots, flowers and fragrant burning wood. Uttaraa was prostrate, convulsed with tears, crying, shrieking aloud like a madwoman, with all the other women weeping in sympathy. All her kin were dead; now her lifeless baby was in her arms. ... He poured a few drops of fresh water into his right hand, and touched with it the infant's lips, nostrils, both ears, both eyes, drawing out the toxic Brahma weapon. "I have never spoken an untruth; I have never turned away from battle; I have never failed to support brahmins. By the merit of these acts of mine, may this child live." Silence in the room. Then, almost imperceptibly at first, the child began to stir.

from Mahabharata: A Modern Retelling by Carole Satyamurti

[pidgevorg]

Translation woes: Lao Tzu

Original: 希言自然 (from Tao Te Ching chapter 23)

Stefan Stenudd translation: “To be of few words is natural.”

Charles Muller translation: “To speak little is natural.“

Robert Eno translation: “To be sparse in speech is to be spontaneous.”

with.org (unknown translator): “Words that cannot be heard of are natural.“

wikisource (unknown translator): “Less spoken, words speak for themselves naturally.“

David Hinton translation: “Keeping words spare: occurrence appearing of itself.”

J. Legge translation: “Abstaining from speech marks him who is obeying the spontaneity of his nature.“ (I will assume his unnecessary verbosity was intentionally ironic??)

And finally, the bot wall of shame:

google’s automatic translation: “He speaks of nature.”

Microsoft’s automatic translation: “Greek nature” (as in “it’s all Greek to me”?!?! ROTFL!!)

(Disclaimer: I personally don’t speak or read Chinese)

[pidgevorg]

Saint Anthony in the sand saw shapes rising, Formed by the wind, sinuous, lewd As snakes dancing; their bitter poison Entered the soul through his pale eyes. - Sleep came; the dances were renewed Upon the retina, the lids not proof Against the orgy of the spheres.

from “Saint Anthony” by R. S. Thomas

[pidgevorg]

I, that had been to you, had you remained, But one more waking from a recurrent dream, Cherish no less the certain stakes I gained, And walk your memory's halls, austere, supreme, A ghost in marble of a girl you knew Who would have loved you in a day or two.

from “I think I should have loved you presently“ by Edna St. Vincent Millay, full poem here: http://www.poemtree.com/poems/IThinkIShouldHaveLovedYou.htm

[pidgevorg]

Have done with blossoms for a time, be bare; Split rock; plunge downward; take heroic soil,- Deeper than bones, no pasture for you there; Deeper than water, deeper than gold and oil: Earth's fiery core alone can feed the bough That blooms between Orion and the Plough.

from “Grow not too high, grow not too far from home” by Edna St. Vincent Millay, full poem here: http://violafair.com/poetry/millay/millaybuck1.htm