Watching

MIRROR
Andrei Tarkovsky
USSR, 1975

Playing

Anouar Brahem
AFTER THE LAST SKY

Anja Lechner, Django Bates, Dave Holland

ELIAS CANETTI
Crowds and Power

First there is the lying in wait for prey; the prey is marked down long before it is aware of our designs on it. With feelings of pleasure and approval it is contemplated, observed and kept watch over; it is seen as meat whilst it is still alive, and so intensely and irrevocably seen as meat that nothing can deflect the watcher's determination to get hold of it. Already while he is prowling round it he feels that it belongs to him. From the moment he selects it as his prey, he thinks of it as incorporated into himself.

Daily Painting

Lasar Segall
A FAMILIA ENFERMA (1920)

Playing

Simone Dinnerstein
UNDERSONG

-

Works by François Couperin, Robert Schumann, Philip Glass, and Erik Satie

ALICE NOTLEY
"Four Sonnets"

1.

I dreamed of a clipper ship
Gold on blue THE CHASEY ALICE
Until he’d seen which Captain You said
He’d seen nothing, I woke bold
Chased you to get caught in the hold
Back to sleep 2 nightmares
Solid ones down not to be told
Woke not wanting to be in life
Wasn’t, outside warmed
To my blood clean cold quickened
On the way to town for food and
Back for you, though I was still
A little sulky & grim
So you fucked me back in

2.

Pink & white, chiffon & chenille, & cherubs
They frame oval mirror cracked across
No reflection of me it’s rented newly
My books on & under a vanity
Bamboo’s here too, Southamptonese, chair
A library’s dark desk, austere
I rearrange change them which change me
I’ll often forget to see
Pink & white to be lost after 90 days
Town’s as foreign-looking & mine
No town fits—not my image of one, but sense
That a town might make sense.
Clean cold-weather town, historical interest
Winter emptied, slickly plain downtown

3.

Hour less close to feeling bad & restless
Spent bath food & drink while you’ve been sleeping
Now reading I hear you walking past my door shut
& back to bed, no words none needed, how can
I think of what’s not done when there’s an easy doing
Always now? Between us. As we’re doing each
If we reach there are words too, & walks & books to-
Gether, tether we pull tighter, after
It turned surprising into the prize for staying
At it, see there are some sometimes, prizes, that aren’t
Lost when found out, & it isn’t even like winning
Which is what gets to be being over fast, it’s like
Being, & spreading, & air we’re breathing

4.

How long you can do nothing depends on what
You’re doing; breathing from the bottom examining
Shocking pink knee socks recalling legs
Numb blue slacked from coldly walking into
Midst of the day; glad going out’s still not next
Pink wheat nap rustles tipped tired shoes
Swallow … air hum ear ocean
This light chair’s held together by a safety pin
& bamboo shoots, some work. I’ll just put on
A dunce caprice if I close my eyes ride
Air waves “Wonder what the dead people are doing
Tonight” me too
Now doused with hands splashing up nothing
Dunk in blow out float in sit down in it

Daily Painting

Emil Orlik
LANDSCAPE WITH MOUNT FUJI IN THE DISTANCE (1908)

Watching

ANGEL, ANGEL, DOWN WE GO

[Retitled CULT OF THE DAMNED for the drive-in second/third bill]

Robert Thom

USA, 1969

Playing

Nam Hye-seung
BULGASAL
Original Soundtrack

Featuring Jeon Jong-hyuk, Kim Woo-jung, Jeon Jong-hoon, Cheon Min-jeong, Won Ye-na, Kim Soo-hyun, Kim Kyung-hee, Janet Suhh, Minseo, 4MEN, Kim Yeji, Kardi

BEN LERNER
The Lichtenberg Figures

In my day, we knew how to drown plausibly,
to renounce the body’s seven claims to buoyancy. In my day,
our fragrances had agency, our exhausted clocks complained
    so beautifully
that cause began to shed its calories  

like sparks. With great ostentation, I began to bald. With
    great ostentation,
I built a small door in my door for dogs. In my day,
we were reasonable men. Even you women and children
were reasonable men. And there was the promise of pleasure
    in every question
we postponed. Like a blouse, the most elegant crimes were
    left undone.  

Now I am the only one who knows
the story of the baleful forms
our valences assumed in winter light. My people, are you not  

horrified of how these verbs decline—
their great ostentation, their doors of different sizes?

                      •

I must drive many miles to deliver this punch line.
I must drive many miles in the modern manner,  

which is suicide, beneath this corrigendum of a sky. Tonight
Orlando Duran went crazy. He smeared every doorknob,
lock, and mirror in his apartment with spermicidal jelly.
To expel air from the lungs suddenly  

is not to live beautifully in the modern manner. Rather
one must learn to drive, to drive
in the widest sense of the word, a sense that seats four
other senses comfortably. Tonight Orlando Duran  

delivered himself in the modern manner,
delivered himself like a punch line. Is this what he meant by  

“negative liberty,”
by “sound of one hand clapping is a heartbeat”?  

                      •

True, a great work takes up the question of its origins
and lets it drop. But this is no great work. This is a sketch
sold on the strength of its signature, a sketch
executed without trial. Inappropriately formal,  

this late work reflects an inability to swallow. Once
my name suggested female bathers
rendered in bright impasto.
Now it is dismissed as “unpronounceable.”  

Polemical, depressed, these contagious black planes
were hung to disperse museum crowds. Alas,
a generation of pilgrim smokers
has arrived and set off the sprinklers.  

True, abandoning the figure won’t change the world.
But then again, neither will changing the world.  

                      •

The left hand is a scandal. And my woman is left handed.
She neglects our middle children.
She deploys her powers on behalf of other nations.
Sleep is a synagogue. And my woman sleeps
The dreamless sleep of the pornographer. Mother always said,
“Worship me, and all this will be yours.” Father always said,
“Suffer common hardship and die in bed.”
Yet I reside with my woman on their acre of irony.
Yet I will die on the cross and I worship my death.  

The internet is the future. And my woman rejects the
    internet.
She rises up when I lie down.
She inflames divisions among the Jews.
Citation is exaltation. And my woman cites
her own unpublished dissertation.  

                      •

I did it for the children. I did it for the money.
I did it for the depression of spirit and the cessation of hope.
I did it because I could, because it was there.
I’d do it again. Oops, I did it again.  

What have I done? What have I done
to deserve this? What have I done with my keys,
my youth? What am I going to do
while you’re at tennis camp? What are we going to do  

with the body? I don’t do smack. I don’t do
toilets. I don’t do well at school. I could do
with a bath. Unto others, I do
injurious, praiseworthy, parroted acts.  

Let’s just do Chinese. Just do as I say. Just do me.
That does it. Easy does it. That’ll do.  

                      •

Blood on the time that we have on our hands.
Blood on our sheets, our sheets of music.
Blood on the canvases
of boxing rings, the canvases of Henri Matisse.  

The man-child faints at the sight of blood
and so must close his eyes
as he dispatches his terrier
with a pocketknife. Tonight,  

blood condensed from atmospheric vapor
falls to the earth. It bleeds three inches.
Concerts are canceled, ball games delayed.
In galoshes and slickers, the children play.  

An arc of seven spectral colors appears opposite the sun
as a result of light refracted through the drops of blood.  

                      •

In those days partial nudity was permitted
provided the breasts in question hung from indigenes.  

The clouds had an ease of diction,
and death had a way with women
and at night our documents opened
to emit their redolent confessions.  

In those days whole onions, whole peoples were immersed
in the pellucid, semisolid fat of hogs.

The children ran lines of powdered gold,
huffed glue comprised of studs,
smoked burial myrrh and then shot up
their schools.

In those days police hauled in all bugs, then birds, then stars
and the sky fled underground.

Daily Painting

Paul Klee
THE BOUNDS OF INTELLECT (1927)

Playing

CLUB MOD on allclassical.org

Hosted by Andrea Murray

Playing

Art Blakey and The Jazz Messengers
UGETSU

OCTAVIO PAZ
"In The Middle Of This Phrase…"

I am not at the crest of the world.
                                                      The moment 
is not the stylite’s pillar,
                                           time
doesn’t rise from my feet,
                                              doesn’t burst
in my skull in a silent black explosion,
illumination the same as blindness.
I am on the sixth floor,
                                          I am
in a cage hung from time.

Sixth floor:
                     clatter and surf,
battle of metals,
                             glasshatter,
engines with a rage now human.
                                                           The night
is a disjointed murmur,
                                            a body
self-embraced, tearing itself apart.
                                                              Blind,
fumbling to bind its pieces,
                                                  it gathers
its broken names and scatters them.
With lopped fingers
the city touches itself in dreams.

I am not at the crossroads:
                                                      to choose
is to go wrong.
                           I am
in the middle of this phrase.
                                                    Where will it take me?
Rumbling tumble,
                                 data and date,
my birthfall:
                       calendar dismembered
in the hollows of my memory.
I am the sack of my shadows.

                                                  Descent
to the slack breasts of my mother.
Wrinkled hills,
                            swabbed lava,
sobbing fields,
                           saltpeter meals.
Two workmen open the pit.
                                                   Crumbled
mouth of cement and brick.
The wracked box appears:
                                                through the loose planks
the pearl-grey hat,
                                  the pair of shoes,
the black suit of a lawyer.
                                               Bones, buttons, rags:
sudden heap of dust
                                     at the feet of the light.
Cold, unused light,
                                   almost sleeping,
dawn light,
                     just down from the hills,
shepherdess of the dead.
                                              That which was my father
fits in that canvas sack
                                         a workman hands me
as my mother crosses herself.
                                                       Before it ends
the vision scatters:
                                   I am in the middle,
hung in a cage,
                             hung in an image.

The beginning drifts off,
                                     the end vanishes.

There is neither start nor finish:
                                                  I am in the pause,

I neither end nor begin,
                                         what I say
has neither hands nor feet.
                                                 I turn around in myself
and always find
                             the same names,
the same faces,
                          and never find myself.

My history is not mine:
                                    a syllable from that broken phrase
the city in its circular fever
                                          repeats and repeats.

City, my city,
                    insulted stela,
dishonored stone,
                                  name spat out.
Your story is History:
                                     fate
masked as freedom,
                                   errant,
orbitless star,
                      a game
we all play without knowing the rules,
a game that no one wins,
                                       a game without rules,
the whim of a speculative god,
                                               a man
turned into a stuttering god.
                                          Our oracles
are aphasic speech.
                                Our prophets
seers with glasses.
                             History:
coming and going
                            without beginning
                                                     without end.
No one has gone there,
                                      no one
has drunk from the fountain,
                                             no one
has opened the stone eyelids of time,
                                                           no one
has heard the first word,
                                      no one will hear the last,
the mouth that speaks it talks to itself,
                                                            no one
has gone down in the pit of the universes,
                                                                   no one
has returned from the dungheap of the suns.
                             History:
dump and rainbow.
                             Scale
to the high terraces:
                             seven notes
dissolved in clarity.
                              Shadowless words.
We didn’t hear them, we denied them.
                                             We said they don’t exist:
we were content with noise.
                                              Sixth floor:
I am in the middle of this phrase:
                                                    where
will it take me?
                        Mangled language.
Poet: gardener of epitaphs.

—Translated from the Spanish by Eliot Weinberger

Daily Painting

Arthur Garfield Dove
RED SUN (1935)

Playing

Ry Cooder
CHICKEN SKIN MUSIC

SUSAN SONTAG

“Letter to Borges”

On the 10th anniversary of the death of Jorge Luis Borges, the late Susan Sontag revisited her admiration for his work and the enormity of his cultural legacy in a short and beautiful essay titled “Letter to Borges,” penned on June 13, 1996, included in her 2001 collection WHERE THE STRESS FALLS: ESSAYS.

____________________

You were very much the product of your time, your culture, and yet you knew how to transcend your time, your culture, in ways that seem quite magical. This had something to do with the openness and generosity of your attention. You were the least egocentric, the most transparent of writers, as well as the most artful. It also had something to do with a natural purity of spirit.

You had a sense of time that was different from other people’s. The ordinary ideas of past, present, and future seemed banal under your gaze. You liked to say that every moment of time contains the past and the future, quoting (as I remember) the poet Browning, who wrote something like “the present is the instant in which the future crumbles into the past.” That, of course, was part of your modesty: your taste for finding your ideas in the ideas of other writers.

The serenity and the transcendence of self that you found are to me exemplary. You showed that it is not necessary to be unhappy, even while one is clear-eyed and undeluded about how terrible everything is. Somewhere you said that a writer — delicately you added: all persons — must think that whatever happens to him or her is a resource. (You were speaking of your blindness.)

Books are not only the arbitrary sum of our dreams, and our memory. They also give us the model of self-transcendence. Some people think of reading only as a kind of escape: an escape from the “real” everyday world to an imaginary world, the world of books. Books are much more. They are a way of being fully human.

I’m sorry to have to tell you that books are now considered an endangered species. By books, I also mean the conditions of reading that make possible literature and its soul effects. Soon, we are told, we will call up on “bookscreens” any “text” on demand, and will be able to change its appearance, ask questions of it, “interact” with it. When books become “texts” that we “interact” with according to criteria of utility, the written word will have become simply another aspect of our advertising-driven televisual reality. This is the glorious future being created, and promised to us, as something more “democratic.” Of course, it means nothing less than the death of inwardness — and of the book.

Dear Borges, please understand that it gives me no satisfaction to complain. But to whom could such complaints about the fate of books— of reading itself— be better addressed than to you? (Borges, it’s ten years!) All I mean to say is that we miss you. I miss you. You continue to make a difference. The era we are entering now, this twenty-first century, will test the soul in new ways. But, you can be sure, some of us are not going to abandon the Great Library. And you will continue to be our patron and our hero.

Daily Painting

Thornton Dial, Sr.
THE MOVIE STAR AND THE TIGER NEED ONE ANOTHER (1992)

Playing

Dora Pejačević
PIANO CONCERTO, OP. 33
SYMPHONY IN F-SHARP MINOR, OP. 41

Peter Donohoe
Sakari Oramo
BBC Symphony Orchestra

Daily Painting

Peder Mørk Mønsted
RETURN OF TWILIGHT (1922)

ELIAS CANETTI
Crowds and Power

The deception is complete. It is the deception of all leaders. They pretend that they will be the first to die, but, in reality, they send their people to death, so that they themselves may stay alive longer. The trick is always the same. The leader wants to survive, for with each survival he grows stronger. If he has enemies, so much the better; he survives them. If not, he has his own people. In any event he uses both, whether successively or together. Enemies he can use openly; that is why he has enemies. His own people must be used secretly.

Daily Painting

Jules Adolphe Breton
THE SONG OF THE LARK (1884)

Reading

Elif Shafak
10 MINUTES 38 SECONDS IN THIS STRANGE WORLD

Playing

John Porter and The Dowland Project
NIGHT SESSIONS

ELIAS CANETTI
Crowds and Power

A human being who falls down reminds us of an animal we might have hunted and brought down ourselves. Every sudden fall which arouses laughter does so because it suggests helplessness and reminds us that the fallen can, if we want, be treated as prey. If we went further and actually ate it, we would not laugh. We laugh instead of eating it. Laughter is our physical reaction to the escape of potential food.

Daily Painting

Kenji Yoshida
LIFE [命] (ND)

Playing

Yves Tumor
HEAVEN TO A TORTURED MIND

ELIAS CANETTI
Crowds and Power

The crowd is the same everywhere, in all periods and cultures; it remains essentially the same among men of the most diverse origin, education and language. Once in being, it spreads with the utmost violence. Few can resist its contagion; it always wants to go on growing and there are no inherent limits to its growth. It can arise wherever people are together, and its spontaneity and suddenness are uncanny.

Daily Painting

Jeffrey Smart
SUNDAY MORNING SERVICE (1945)

Playing

Various Artists
THE ROUGH GUIDE TO CAMBODIAN PSYCHEDELIC

Tracks by Ros Sereysothea, Pan Ron, Yos Olarang, Dengue Fever, The Cambodian Space Project, Dub Addiction, and Sin Sisamouth.

ELIAS CANETTI
Crowds and Power

It is always the enemy who started it, even if he was not the first to speak out, he was certainly planning it; and if he was not actually planning it, he was thinking of it; and, if he was not thinking of it, he would have thought of it.

Daily Painting
[Woodblock Print Edition]

Tamami Shima
GAME FOWL (1959)

Playing

CLUB MOD on allclassical.org

Hosted by Andrea Murray

Playing

Thomas Hume
THE SPIRIT OF GAMBO

Emma Kirby
Paolo Pandolfo
Labyrinto

ELIAS CANETTI
Crowds and Power

It is only in a crowd that man can become free of this fear of being touched. That is the only situation in which the fear changes into its opposite. The crowd he needs is the dense crowd, in which body is pressed to body; a crowd, too, whose psychical constitution is also dense, or compact, so that he no longer notices who it is that presses against him.

As soon as a man has surrendered himself to the crowd, he ceases to fear its touch. Ideally, all are equal there; no distinctions count. Not even that of sex. The man pressed against him is the same as himself He feels him as he feels himself. Suddenly it is as though everything were happening in one and the same body.

Daily Painting

Jeff Faerber
GOLDEN SKY (2010)

Playing

Various Artists
VISION & REVISION
The First 80 Years of Topic Records

Tracks by Martin Simpson, Richard Thompson, Lankum, Peggy Seeger, John Smith, Sam Lee, Martin Carthy, Olivia Chaney, Lisa O’Neill, Oysterband, Nancy Kerr, Chris Wood, Josienne Clarke & Ben Walker, Lisa Knapp, Kitty Macfarlane, Sam Kelly & The Lost Boys, Emily Portman & Rob Harbron, Rachael McShane & The Cartographers, Eliza Carthy & Olivia Chaney, and The Oldham Tinkers.

ELIAS CANETTI
Crowds and Power

A murder shared with many others, which is not only safe and permitted, but indeed recommended, is irresistible to the great majority of men.

Playing

DakhaBrakha
YAHUDKY

ELiAS CANETTI

I cannot become modest; too many things burn in me; the old solutions are falling apart; nothing has been done yet with the new ones. So I begin, everywhere at once, as if I had a century ahead of me.

Daily Painting

Cyril Cox
LATE AFTERNOON LIGHT (1958)

Playing

George Frideric Händel
PARTENOPE, HWV 27

Philippe Jaroussky, Karina Gauvin, John Mark Ainsley, Teresa Iervolino, Emöke Barath, Luca Tittoto

Riccardo Minasi
Il Pomo d'Oro

ELIAS CANETTI
The Human Province

There are books, that one has for twenty years without reading them, that one always keeps at hand, that one takes along from city to city, from country to country, carefully packed, even when there is very little room, and perhaps one leafs through them while removing them from a trunk; yet one carefully refrains from reading even a complete sentence.

Then after twenty years, there comes a moment when suddenly, as though under a high compulsion, one cannot help taking in such a book from beginning to end, at one sitting: it is like a revelation. Now one knows why one made such a fuss about it. It had to be with one for a long time; it had to travel; it had to occupy space; it had to be a burden; and now it has reached the goal of its voyage, now it reveals itself, now it illuminates the twenty bygone years it mutely lived with one. It could not say so much if it had not been there mutely the whole time, and what idiot would dare to assert that the same things had always been in it.

Daily Painting

Jamie Wyeth
PUMPKIN MARCH (1974)

Playing

Bonnie "Prince" Billy
THE PURPLE BIRD

ITALO CALVINO
If on a WInter's Night a Traveler

What harbor can receive you more securely than a great library?

Daily Painting

Nick Alm
BEDROOM (2023)

Playing

Glen Hansard
THIS WILD WILLING

OTTESSA MOSHFEGH
"Dancing in the Moonlight"

I met her two days before Christmas at a holiday pop-up market on the Lower East Side. This was 2006, and she was selling refurbished antique furniture, which she’d placed around her taped-off space like someone’s fancy living room. She wore tight red trousers and a black shirt that looked like the top of a ballerina’s leotard. Her hair was frizzy, bleached blonde, and she had a lot of makeup on—too much, I’d say. Her face was pinched, as though she’d just smelled someone farting. It was that look of revulsion that awoke something in me. She made me want to be a better man.

While she was busy with customers, I sat on a chaise longue for sale and pretended to be fascinated. I pushed at the springs with the palms of my hands. I lay down like a patient in analysis, then sat up again. The thing was priced at $2,750. I took out my cell phone and pressed some buttons, pretending that I wasn’t staring at the girl. Finally she noticed me and came over.

Daily Painting

Albert Birkle
MADNESS (c. 1925)

Playing

The Waterboys
LIFE, DEATH, AND DENNIS HOPPER

ALEKSEY KONSTANOVICH TOLSTOY
"The Wolves"

When the church-village slumbers
And the last songs are sung,
When the grey mist arising,
Is o’er the marshes hung,
’Tis then the woods forsaking,
Their way cross country taking.
Nine howling wolves come hungering for food.

Behind the first,—the grey one,—
    Trot seven more of black.
Close on their hoary leader;
    As rearguard of the pack
The red wolf limps, all bloody,
His paws with gore still ruddy
As after his companions grim he pants.

When through the village lurking
    Nought gives them check or fright,
No watch dog dares to bellow,
    The peasant ghastly white.
His breath can scarce be taking.
His limbs withhold from shaking—
While prayers of terror freeze upon his lips!

About the church they circle
    And softly slink away
To prowl about the priest’s farm,
    Then of a sudden they
Are round the drink shop turning,
Fain some bad word be learning—
From peasants drinking noisily within.

With fully thirteen bullets
    Thy weapon must be armed,
And with a wad of goat’s hair;
    Then thou wilt fight unharmed.
Fire calmly,—and before all
Will the leader, the grey, fall,
The rest will surely follow one by one.

When the cock wakes the village
    From out its morning dream.
Thou wilt behold the corpses—
    Nine she-wolves by the stream!
On the right lies the grey one,
To left in frost the lame one—
All bloody,—God pardon us sinners!

Translated from the Russian by Martha Gilbert Dickinson Bianchi

Daily Painting

Anton Heyboer
MADONNA TUSSEN NATUUR EN CULTUUR (1993-1995)

Playing

CLUB MOD on allclassical.org

Hosted by Andrea Murray

Reading

Eric LaRocca
AT DARK I BECOME LOATHSOME

Playing

Art Blakey and The Jazz Messengers
MOANIN'

RALPH WALDO EMERSON
"Fate"

That you are fair or wise is vain,
Or strong, or rich, or generous;
You must have also the untaught strain
That sheds beauty on the rose.
There is a melody born of melody,
Which melts the world into a sea.
Toil could never compass it,
Art its height could never hit,
It came never out of wit,
But a music music-born
Well may Jove and Juno scorn.
Thy beauty, if it lack the fire
Which drives me mad with sweet desire,
What boots it? what the soldier’s mail
Unless he conquer and prevail?
What all the goods thy pride which lift,
If thou pine for another’s gift?
Alas! that one is born in blight,
Victim of perpetual slight;—
When thou lookest in his face,
Thy heart saith, Brother! go thy ways.
None shall ask thee what thou doest,
Or care a rush for what thou knowest.
Or listen when thou repliest,
Or remember where thou liest,
Or how thy supper is sodden,—
And another is born
To make the sun forgotten.
Surely he carries a talisman
Under his tongue;
Broad are his shoulders, and strong,
And his eye is scornful,
Threatening, and young.
I hold it of little matter,—
Whether your jewel be of pure water,
A rose diamond or a white,—
But whether it dazzle me with light.
I care not how you are drest,
In the coarsest, or in the best,
Nor whether your name is base or brave,
Nor for the fashion of your behavior,—
But whether you charm me,
Bid my bread feed, and my fire warm me,
And dress up nature in your favor.
One thing is forever good,
That one thing is success,—
Dear to the Eumenides,
And to all the heavenly brood.
Who bides at home, nor looks abroad,
Carries the eagles, and masters the sword.

Daily Painting

Alfredo Guido
STEVEDORES RESTING (1938)

Playing

Sonny Rollins
A NIGHT AT THE VILLAGE VANGUARD 

WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS
"About a little girl"

Knowledge defeats its own end
approaching the state of heaven
when it envisions
through the glass
delicately adjusted in the
sliding tubes
                 —to prove death inevitable—
the red and blue dots
of anilene stained blood which
shout derisively at our despair

But the child
walks laughing from
room to room of her gentle home

She is eleven and
her parents love her very much

Over her
the trees hold their leaves
dripping with the rain
shining green

This afternoon she will ride in the bus
to the railroad station

There will be a locomotive
and cars and people running around—
bags to carry—The lake
beckons in the distance—
                                        But
she is an angel, already in
heaven, the earth

is a toy balloon under her feet—

with her girlish shoes she
pushes it back—
it falls away into banality—
her wrinkling brown eyes have robbed it
of its meaning—
                           It is she

The Promenader—
whom men see and do not discover—

Princess Marion
eaten by curious wrongs

Daily Painting

Bernard Perlin
ORTHODOX BOYS (1948)

Playing

Yves Tumor
SAFE IN THE HANDS OF LOVE

ITALO CALVINO
If on a Winter's Night a Traveler

You're the sort of person who, on principle, no longer expects anything of anything. There are plenty, younger than you or less young, who live in the expectation of extraordinary experiences: from books, from people, from journeys, from events, from what tomorrow has in store. But not you. You know that the best you can expect is to avoid the worst.

Daily Painting

Francisco Fonseca
DRIVING HOME (ND)

Playing

Sampha
PROCESS

RALPH WALDO EMERSON
Society and Solitude

I cannot go to the houses of my nearest relatives, because I do not wish to be alone. Society exists by chemical affinity, and not otherwise.

Daily Painting

Yoko Akino
SOMEONE IS ALWAYS AWAKE (2019)

Playing

Henrik Ødegaard
MUSIC BY HENRIK ØDEGAARD

Jaan-Eik Tulve
Vox Clamantis

RALPH WALDO EMERSON
Society and Solitude

We do not believe our own thought; we must serve somebody; we must quote somebody; we dote on the old and the distant; we are tickled by great names; we import the religion of other nations; we quote their opinions; we cite their laws.