F*ck it Friday… So let us put Saddam Hussein in a shark tank.

It sounds rather lucrative doesn’t it? Not Really. I am always fascinated with obscure art pieces that reach beyond the realm of conventional creative outlets most artists bashfully tolerate. There are some vehicles of inspiration certain artists abuse that I do not particularly understand, nor care for, but I always appreciate a good jaw drop with a side of belly bruising laughter.

The controversial Czech Republic artist David Cerny enjoyed the public’s disturbed reaction when his sculpture entitled “Shark” was unveiled. The piece is a model of the former Iraqi leader Saddam Hussein, hands tied behind his back, suspended in a glass box filled with formaldehyde. It is, obviously, an extremely political piece that would, unsurprisingly, provoke uproar in the public and art community over cultural sensitivity. Cerny claims the art piece was to communicate a personal philosophy of his: “impossibility of death in the minds of something living.”

I am sure you have already guessed it has been banned in several countries and Cerny is very humble about respecting the opinion of the people. Wow, an artist who is not a jack ass and controversial?! Sounds lucrative… no, not really, I just enjoy saying that word today.

"The Swollen River" By Jenna Reimer

Cloud over rain, rain over cloud;
The fury of earth’s breast bone
Proclaims a sweet dominion
Rooting down to the river’s edge.
It is here, where I lie
The time rises
Into the irrational mind;
Where naked bodies are buried
In illusions of transcendence,
Fluid beneath the air’s lucidity
And timeless breath.
The sun has dawn on this realm
Where nothing is clear.
Truth has no means as death lives
In deaths arms with no solution;
To say this is clear would save us all.
It is only when my body drowns
In the rising river, and the rain
Hollows in full and continues,
That I will come out of this
knowing no one,
Nor they me.

Say Whaaaa Wednesday: Fashionably Sweet…

My wonderfully fashion forward friend (thanks Jory!) emailed me these unusually creative tea bags! These adorable creations definitely made me laugh to myself and I just had to post them for my Say Whaaaa Wednesday… Ive been sick these past few weeks so excuse my lack of creativity in the literary and artistic medium I seem to be straying far from… I have had no energy.

Anyways, I always dreamed of discussing the state of the fashion industry, the new up and coming trends in Paris with Karl Lagerfeld over some tea and lavender tea cookies and now I can… sort of. These Pret-a-Portea tea bags, designed by a German novelty company called Donkey Products, come in the form of the glorious Karl Lagerfeld, Donatella Versace, John Galliano and many more fashion icons! How delightful!

A Quest for Enlightenment

I’ve been awfully sick these past few days which has made it difficult to muster up the effort to do much of anything. School has ended, with the exception of one more exam on Thursday, and I have been rather anxious over all the free time I am going to be faced with. With nothing better to do than sit with my own thoughts I have decided to venture on a summer filled with all things “serene.”

I am going to force myself to channel my energy into creative and, well, happy activities as I have been feeling my life is overwhelmed with doings that bring me nothing but negative vigor. Whether it is pulling out my acrylics and painting, going to a museum or getting back into working on my poetry, I am certain I will bring a subtle light to my lonely summer. Although it is somewhat frightening for me to voyage outside of my normal, and unhealthily comfortable, routine I am determined to use this summer as a period for self discovery. I will chronicle my mundane adventure and hopefully succumb to some sort of epiphany by the time the leaves return to a crimson orange and find whatever it is I am searching for; perhaps it is an enlightened view on the irrational world and my irrational place within in.

F*ck It Friday... I'm Sick and Feelin' the Scene

It is far too uncommon that a postcolonial poet is able to escape the proliferation of political and African content flooding his or her poetry. I was initially emphatic in my belief that, as much as I appreciate postcolonial literature, there was far too much emphasis on the societal and political state of one’s colonized country; the writing didn’t seem to have real existential leanings where there was an stress on the individuals quest for the meaning of life and the struggle life’s strange tides bring forth.

Before I knew it, I came across a poet from Nigeria, Ebereonwu, whose poetry left me in awe by way of his crazy imagery and outlandish context. I found myself wondering whether his work was a product of psychedelic drugs or psychiatric issues. He tragically died in a car accident but his work shells out a rash and somewhat “fuck you” attitude which mirrors his unique style. When asked why he wears his typical guevera styled beret, he replied: "It's a matter of choice. In a world where people are used to copying what everybody is doing, they are bound to see me as a radical. All the changes in the world are not brought about by people who behave like their grandfathers." What a cool dude eh? A man who never tried to render unceasing ideas and say what’s on his untouchable mind; what other mind could write lines too tart for the tongue: “The Cobra’s venom is my cough syrup” (“Mankind,” The Insomniac Dragon).

The Following is also an excerpt from The Insomniac Dragon

HERE

Your spittle harpooned the shark of bigotry and norm
Your voice unsettled the moon even in its abode up high
In your mortal strides, you caused cherubs to fret and sigh
You’ve gone now leaving behind your prepuce and your venom

THERE

It isn’t the fool anymore, let them know
It’s the wise and strong that treads where angels fear to go
So with your pen, cause ripples over there
Unsleep their slumbering stare

Say Whaaaa Wednesday... 15 Minute Free write

Always fun to take 15 minutes and just write whatever pops into your head! You'd be surprised with what comes outta the mindless chattering that goes on up in that noggin of yours!

6 Feet Underground Scene

He’s got himself a homemade cigarette /
a nighthawk sitting slumped waiting /
for a dog day tomorrow /
he’s tried it all but it ain’t no use /
he thinks to himself /
“this town only dwells buzzards / whose feathers are a concerning green” /
a nicotine cloud hanging in his memory / offers no direction out /
he’s gonna be burning 6 feet to the underground scene /
where they dress in calico / with crimson blood shot eyes /
time to kill and places not to be /
no one goes there without baggage / wanting a soul to spew their lies /
knowing he’s burned out all his one night stands /
he sighs /
women strangled his heart and scratched out his prays /
keeping his dreams from sneaking up behind him /
pouring out their perfume / with a barrette in their hair /
they slips out as fast as he drinks his bourbon /
tearing the teeth out of the night /
with no thank you card /
the waitress interrupts his reverie / with a sideways glance /
her graveyard eyes punch through his mellow dramatic trench /
with grey strips tearing onto the caffeine soaked floor /
she knows he’s poisoned all his waters / put them in a suite case /
next to his switch blades / the man is no more than a boy /
with a toy pistol shooting nightmares /
he’s been 6 feet underground all along /

"It Cries in my Heart"

(Yes, you are suppose to play the video while you read the poem)

The Genesis of the Butterfly by Victor Hugo

The dawn is smiling on the dew that covers
The tearful roses; lo, the little lovers
That kiss the buds, and all the flutterings
In jasmine bloom, and privet, of white wings,
That go and come, and fly, and peep and hide,
With muffled music, murmured far and wide.
Ah, the Spring time, when we think of all the lays
That dreamy lovers send to dreamy mays,
Of the fond hearts within a billet bound,
Of all the soft silk paper that pens wound,
The messages of love that mortals write
Filled with intoxication of delight,
Written in April and before the May time
Shredded and flown, playthings for the wind's playtime,
We dream that all white butterflies above,
Who seek through clouds or waters souls to love,
And leave their lady mistress in despair,
To flit to flowers, as kinder and more fair,
Are but torn love-letters, that through the skies
Flutter, and float, and change to butterflies.

Serene Sunday...

You know I'm lacking inspiration when I do my "Sentation Sunday" posts.

Seeing: Nature unearthing the signs of a lovely spring

Hearing: Tom Waits singing “Eggs and Sausage [In a Cadillac with Susan Michelson]”

Touching: Kneading soft homemade dough

Smelling: My freshly baked cinnamon raisin loaf!

Tasting: A desire to live a little…

F*ck It Friday... Living in the Absurd

Born into a silent world, a world where there exists a hierarchal struggle between the human mind and truth, the soul is forever confined within a hostile world where indifference precedes the mercilessness of human nature. Life’s absence of meaning seems to remove any reason for living; yet, it is this lack of purpose that presents humankind with true freedom. It is a fruitless argument to relay the notion that life does not exist, as I am unable to prove it does not, yet it seems my own sanity is contained by the thought that my reality has limitless tangents in which I dictate the directions and perceptions of each stream that is solely secluded in my mind.

Happiness is the sole purpose of life. To be happy is to be content with the reality that presenting problems may not always relay solutions. We fear thought; we fear the act of thinking and knowledge more than death. Humanity has a disastrous habit of passively accepting the mundane actions of life where there is little room for subconscious contemplation. It is dreadful to face a day absent of any passion; however, it is all that will free the mind of the harshness and constraints of the contemporary world. To live within a clear mind absent of any worldly influence and survive within the realm of one’s own perception is the essence of existence. One must understand there will never be a lasting peace in the soul of the individual until civilization outlaws the grim circumstances of the world. It is this essential concept of truth and internal reality, where the inevitable demise of ones body and unfortunate conditions of a pitiless world will forever persist, that will free one from the chaotic and insatiable ways of life.

Say Whaaaa Wednesday... The Beauty in Elephant Dung

I have noticed my posts have been flooded with controversies in art; the absurd never fails to spark my imagination and reestablishing my conception on the glorious freedom of artistic expression. I recently came across a British painter named Chris Ofili whose artwork is best known for its rich, complicated and very much scintillating images of Religious figures adorn with glitter and, here’s the interesting medium, elephant shit. His work is less painting than painting like objects, and is fascinating to look at.

Ofili’s Nigerian heritage strongly influences his paintings and it was one particular piece titled The Holy Virgin Mary that involved a lawsuit, former mayor of NYC Rudy Giuliani and a mob of angry Christians. The painting was exhibited in 1999 at the Brooklyn Museum of Art as apart of the “Sensation” exhibit where young British Artists toured their work from Berlin to NY. The painting is a black African Mary surrounded by female genitalia cut from porno magazines, and elephant dung. The shit was formed in shapes to resemble the cherubim and seraphim; commonly seen in images of the Immaculate Conception. Giuliani threatened the museum to take the offensive piece down or he’d withhold the city’s funding towards the exhibit and museum itself; he overtly labeled the piece to be “disgusting” and “sick”.

I think the painting is lovely. Ofili’s use of bold color, shades of purple and blue look the way our souls feel when trying to understand our own imagination in the dark. It revels in early European Modernism and I can’t help but hear the voices of Harlem Renaissance poet’s whose low voices mumble the absurd within the dark, smoky confines of a underground jazz club. There is A LOT of art out there that does not deserve any kind of recognition as being labeled “art”. However, I find Ofili is venturing into a world where there exists a hierarchal struggle between the method and the artistic merit their work embodies. Elephant shit or not, The Holy Virgin Mary is strikingly beautiful and does make a bold statement, I find, that lacks any sort of insulting connotations besides the fact that animal feces tend to stink, rather bad. Could he have used a different medium to create such a piece? Absolutely. Though, what kind of fun would we have discussing a painting that was created strictly using traditional methods; talking about elephant dung is a lot more enchanting, no?

Serene Saturday... Abstract of Reflection

Living without appeal, living within the field of time where you are continually reminded of your limits of a constrained and meaningless life- I can’t help but find this utterly tragic yet entirely appealing. To live with constant awareness of the uncertainty and ambiguity of an existence, where no greater life exists but your own, comforts me. My actions and judgments shield me from all that is separate from my own being; all influences that are deemed “outer”, simply said, influences that are “not me”, are completely impervious as my thoughts are my own consciousness, an awaken state only I can conceive. My own consciousness is a sole escape for an intellectual alignment and personal reality as this mindfulness is the only reality I will ever know. This internal awareness is all we will ever believe to be true; perhaps this realization is why I always right down my dreams, I never know when I am going to wake up into an unfamiliar world.

This reflective and internal contemplation is all we have that holds true, and it is this truth that carries us through this insignificant life. As I type this I question my own breath, I watch my fingers delicately touch buttons while a compilation of letters turn into words before my eyes that I believe to mean something. Brushing my hair behind my ear or closing my eyes while my fingers read the contours of my face, my lips, my eyes I become lost in a stream of mindless chattering and confusion. Am I the only one who truly exists? Is this life I experience all apart of a dream that continually transforms in relation to how I perceive it? Is there a world going on when I am not looking or is it only now, and here, where a central being is present that is defined according to my own vision? I cannot answer these questions, no one can, and so I will except this bleak understanding and remain silent in my humble life where I hold no expectations or judgments. I exist in a life that will carry me till my death and where I will try not to obey the flame and be utterly alone in doing so.

Say Whaaaa Wednesday... The Thorn in the Ass of Real Art

I do not believe this type of exhibit is profound in anyway, rather, I see it representing an aspect of art that appears to be surfacing more and more; through mundane and dull inspiration comes a supposed creative outlet that in turn becomes labeled “art.”

Gregor Schneider, a German artist, created an exhibit in which already-dying volunteers were to lay throughout an art gallery, in the view of uneasy onlookers who were anticipating nothing more than an unusual physical image of death’s beauty. The entire idea is creative, controversial (we all love controversy) and highly intriguing, however, I can’t help but see this exhibit as a representative for a new wave of art that appears to capture an essence that requires no capturing; death is nature’s doing, why should the artist gain recognition for a subject matter that, not only has been way over analyzed, but that is impervious to any of our own hands?

I hate to bash artists, I do admire their attempts at creative innovations, yet I can’t help but see this as a lazy path from a dull mind; a mind that is out of distinctive material to create art that is, in itself, it’s own essence. I suppose my view on such radical contemporary art is similar to my perception on the cinema of the 21st century where novels and comic books, old films and more are recreated. There seems to be no originality anymore.

I tend to believe I am one of those people who are fascinated with death. I find it utterly romantic in a way. There is something about the notion of nothingness… death is simply not anything; it is the absence of presence, a place in time where there is no return, where the howling of a wind blows right through its very spirit and never returns. Tell me how is that not dreamy? Look, I don’t want to get off track here; art is art, whether it is controversial or not and I understand and appreciate that very concept. If people find this type of contemporary uninspired art to be “art” so be it. I must however make a bold statement regarding such pieces: The only thing an artist such as Schneider relies upon is the transparency of his naive audience who will applaud such thoughtless expression in the name of art when he is simply reinstating an age old concept of the inevitable demise of humankind. It’s been said and done before.

Serene Saturday... Sort of...

For the past two weeks I have neglected to post anything for “Serene Saturday/Sunday.” Perhaps my uncertainty is due to my mind lacking any sort of “serene” sentiments. School is coming to an end and I am finding myself falling into that utterly depressive phase of “where am I going in life?” Ultimately, I do know what I want but my lack of motivation and inept social graces appear to be halting me from any sort of progress. Why must my passion within an industry that involves social networking?! Last time I checked most writers and poets are introverts, or at least have a few loose screws in their head that make them uncomfortably outlandish. How the hell do I get myself out there when conversations with my bedroom walls are all the communal interaction I get?!

I suppose you’re wanting a poem from me now, a poem exuding some sort of tragic isolation I experience in which I am unable to come to terms with my desires in relation to the harshness of our contemporary world. *Sigh*… unfortunately I have nothing for you; this period of emotional ambiguity has taken a toll on my attempts to find inspiration in the natural world. I can’t help but wonder if this is it? Is this life? Waiting for tomorrow, as if it’s going to be better than today, as if tomorrow will be a significantly profound period in which the modern world no longer burdens us, rather, it relieves us of the issues we experience in the past. I think the notions of a “tomorrow” instill false hope where we succumb to an anticipation that our lives may become something extraordinary when really it will only ever be a meaningless existence. That is all.

F*ck It Friday- Absurdity, Absolutes and Amaranthine Loveliness

Inspired by a book a friend had suggested I read I decided what better way to start off the Easter weekend with thoughts on Albert Camus’ The Myth of Sisyphus. The essay touches on futile attempt in finding meaning and clarity in one’s life in the wake of an unfathomable world absent of a God or eternal truth. The essay reveals the crippling vulnerability of humankind and its inability to accept the utterly tragic purpose of life; life has no predestined absolute, simply being has neither intent nor reason, rather, it is an existence that is entirely subjective. Absurdism embodies this concept; one will inevitably fail at any attempt to find a rational explanation of the existence of humanity within an immeasurable world.

How delightful isn’t it? Why is it I find such a bleak and devastatingly bold theory to be incredibly romantic? Camus made several things clear throughout this essay that spark my pessimism into a new level of superiority over those who believe in a higher power: the absurd arises when humans feel the need to justify the purpose of tomorrow, the absurd man should live through action not rational thinking, one must relieve oneself from false hope, and finally, much like the mythological Greek myth of Sisyphus, one must acknowledge the tragedy of life’s immeasurability in order to be content. That seems fair enough right?
For F*ck It Friday I couldn’t help but see the incandescent truth that emits from such a dismal, yet entirely reasonable, theory and want to share it’s gloom and doom with the world. However much I’d like to live in a world where my fate is predestined to a life amongst fairies and clouds I find it highly unlikely, more so, sitting on this notion seems anything but didactic towards humanity; perhaps it is no more than a misleading concept that keeps people cozy in their delusional world of spiritual hierarchies and periwinkles… yah, I said periwinkles what of it? I'm not trying to be too extreme here, I do believe extreme positions are only ever followed by contrary extreme positions. I suppose I just want to glare into a world where the medium of time and meaning has disappeared; it seems it is only then when everything backwards becomes rather lucid to me.

An Enchanted Retrospective in Paris- François-Xavier and Claude Lalanne

I have always have been enamored with art nouveau paintings, architecture, furniture and jewelry; its high art, fantastical and imaginative structure always takes me to a wistful, make believe world where I read philosophical literature in a wired bronze chair engraved with golden rabbits hopping about in leafy tutus, as if dancing about the piece’s legs and arm rests. Classic huh?
French husband-and-wife artists, François-Xavier and Claude Lalanne have constructed such extraordinarily beautiful art nouveau pieces where sculpture and furniture mingle. They have charmed art collectors with their whimsical and sensual sculptures. Friends of the couple include Yves Saint Laurent, Tom Ford and Reed Krakoff who all admire his botanical-inspired furniture and elegant way of interpreting the natural world.
In mid March the duo’s work will be showcased at the Musee des Arts Decoratifs in Paris. François-Xavier and Claude Lalanne’s designs act as a sense of absurdity where bronze sheep will adorn the court yard of the exhibit and animal inspired furniture, include a monkey themed desk, will be displayed for the public.
Their pieces are simply delightful and celebrate an artist’s elegant oblivion to the boundaries of fine and decorative art. I love the special blend of luxurious sensuality and earthy irreverence which truly embodies the Parisian way.

(Source: New York Times)