mixed media works

the lens through my cousin jared, an artist based in san francisco, views the world is romantic and old-fashioned. here are some of his mixed media paintings on canvas which incorporate photo transfers.

see: jaredleake.com

Almost Thanksgiving!

It's almost Thanksgiving (Yay!) so I thought I would post a poem about food. Bon appetit! - Jackie:

The Café Filtre

BY PAUL BLACKBURN

Slowly and with persistence

he eats away at the big steak,

gobbles up the asparagus, its

butter & salt & root taste,

drinks at a glass of red wine, and carefully

                             taking his time, mops up

               the gravy with bread—

The top of the café filtre is

copper, passively shines back, & between

mouthfuls of steak, sips of wine,

                             he remembers

               at intervals to

with the flat of his hand

the top removed,

                                       bang

at the apparatus,

create the suction that

the water will

                          fall through

                          more quickly

 

Across the tiles of the floor, the

cat comes to the table  :  again.

“I’ve already given you one piece of steak,

what do you want from me now? Love?”

                            He strokes her head, her

rounded black pregnant head, her greedy

     front paws slip from his knee,

     the pearl of great price

     ignored  .  She’s bored, he

bangs the filtre again, its top is copper

passively shines back  .

                                                                  Food & wine nearly

finished.

He lifts the whole apparatus off the cup  .  Merciful

God, will it never be done?                      Too cold

                                                                      already

to add cream and sugar, he offers the last

piece of steak with his fingers  .

                          She accepts it with calm

                                      dignity,

even delicacy  .  The coffee goes down at a gulp, it

is black

& lukewarm  .

Sonnet XVI, Pablo Neruda

Sonnet XVI by Pablo Neruda

I love the handful of the earth you are.
Because of its meadows, vast as a planet,
I have no other star. You are my replica
of the multiplying universe

Your wide eyes, are the only light I know
from extinguished constellations;
your skin throbs like the streak
of a meteor through rain.

Your hips were that much of the moon for me;
your deep mouth and its delights, that much sun;
your heart, fiery with its long red rays,

was that much ardent light, like honey in the shade.
So I pass across your burning form, kissing
you - compact and planetary, my dove, my globe.

- Emily, '15

Anna Schuleit

Anna Schuleit does a lot of installation artwork; she even did a site-specific installation at abandoned Northampton State Hospital in 2000.  She's always doing tons of innovating new projects. One she's about to begin in really interesting; her website indicates a "new collaboration is now underway with neuroscientists at Columbia Medical School, that will allow Anna to explore a new drawing method based on recording the movements of the pupils with vision research tools = requiring no intermediary between seeing and drawing.  Seeing becomes drawing in that way, opening up an entirely new way of visual record-taking, mapping, and art-making. Anna will test this new drawing method via a prototype portable eye-tracking device during an expedition to the North Pole next Summer, as a fellow of the Arctic Circle program."

Just above is Anna Schuleit in her Harrisville, New Hampshire studio.  Check out more of her work and new project ideas at her website: http://www.anna-schuleit.com/

-Hannah '14

A Blessing

BY JAMES WRIGHT

Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota,

Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass.

And the eyes of those two Indian ponies

Darken with kindness.

They have come gladly out of the willows

To welcome my friend and me.

We step over the barbed wire into the pasture

Where they have been grazing all day, alone.

They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness   

That we have come.

They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other.

There is no loneliness like theirs.   

At home once more,

They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness.   

I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms,

For she has walked over to me   

And nuzzled my left hand.   

She is black and white,

Her mane falls wild on her forehead,

And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear

That is delicate as the skin over a girl’s wrist.

Suddenly I realize

That if I stepped out of my body I would break

Into blossom.

-Hope you enjoyed this one! - Jackie

i'm knee deep

for the week of november 12, this is my official walking song.  if you see my brooding around the corners of hillyer, fact is i'm taking a break from reading plato and i'm listening to the line, "you're the shit & i'm knee deep in it" over and over and over again.

can someone tell me what literary device is used in that lyric? it beats me, but i think it might be one of my favorite double entendres.  if only i had a list of "favorite double entendres"....

--b

Japanese Sandman

"Trading new days for old"

Kristen, 15'

Winston Chmielinski

this artist is definitely worth checking out. here are just a couple that i particularly liked.

you can find a lot more on his website: http://www.wi-ch.com/

-hannah '14

Zachary Wollard

I found this artist the other day. So cool! I'm pretty sure this last painting is of Narnia...
-Jackie

a short history of the apple

the crunch is the thing, a certain joy in crashing through
living tissue, a memory of Neanderthal days.
                                   -edward bunyard, the anatomy of dessert, 1929

teeth at the skin. anticipation.
then flesh. grain on the tongue.
eve's knees ground in the dirt
of paradise. newton watching
gravity happen. the history
of apples in each starry core,
every papery chamber's bright
bitter seed. woody stem
an infant tree. william tell
and his lucky arrow. orchards
of the fertile crescent. bushels.
fire blight. scab and powdery mildew.
cedar apple rust. the apple endures.
born of the wild rose, of crab ancestors.
the first pip raised in kazakhstan.
snow white with poison on her lips.
the buried blades of halloween.
budding and grafting. john chapman
in his tin pot hat. oh westward
expansion. apple pie. american
as. hard cider. winter banana.
melt-in-the-mouth made sweet
by hives of britain's honeybees:
white man's flies. o eat. o eat.


-dorianne laux, the book of men, 2011

Visitor!

Dear Labrys blog,

Today I saw Allison, a Labrys grad, at lunch. It was wild and amazing and made me feel like I had stepped into a magical time vortex which lead to countless weird philosophical musings, poems and reflections on science fiction television. So, I have decided to post a poem on time, and to spare you from Milton, have decided on Auden, which, while still depressing, I just like far better - it's more readable. But anyways...

Villanelle

Time can say nothing but I told you so,
Time only knows the price we have to pay;
If I could tell you, I would let you know.

If we should weep when clowns put on their show,
If we should stumble when musicians play,
Time can say nothing but I told you so.

There are no fortunes to be told, although
Because I love you more than I can say,
If I could tell you, I would let you know.

The winds must come from somewhere when they blow,
There must be reasons why the leaves decay;
Time can say nothing but I told you so.

Perhaps the roses really want to grow,
The vision seriously intends to stay;
If I could tell you, I would let you know.

Suppose the lions all get up and go,
And all the brooks and soldiers run away?
Time can say nothing but I told you so.
If I could tell you, I would let you know. 

WH Auden


P.S. Allison it was great to see you! Have a lovely weekend back home. : ) 

In honor of the first day of November, which was a very typical kind of November day: blustery, cold, and dreary.


"This is the year's despair: some wind last night
Utter'd too soon the irrevocable word,
And the leaves heard it, and the low clouds heard;
So a wan morning dawn'd of sterile light;
Flowers droop'd, or show'd a startled face and white;
The cattle cower'd, and one disconsolate bird
Chirp'd a weak note; last came this mist and blurr'd
The hills, and fed upon the fields like blight.
Ah, why so swift despair! There yet will be
Warm noons, the honey'd leavings of the year,
Hours of rich musing, ripest autumn's core,
And late-heap'd fruit, and falling hedge-berry,
Blossoms in cottage-crofts, and yet, once more,
A song, not less than June's, fervent and clear."
-  Edward Dowden, Later Autumn Song