February Offerings – Part V: Something to Delight both Head and Heart

American Art – Part I of IV: Alan Dingman

In the words of one writer, “Alan Dingman grew up in upstate NY. He left for New York City to attend Parsons School of Design and Rhode Island School of a Design in Providence, Rhode Island.
Upon completion of his BFA, he became Associate Art Director at St Martins Press in NYC. In 1996 he became a full-time illustrator. Since then his work has appeared in numerous publications including Rolling Stone, The New York Times and Business Week. He received an International Bronze Award for 3-D Illustration from the The Dimensional Illustrators Inc., a Silver Medal for design and Merit Awards for illustration from The Society of Illustrators.”
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Born 5 February 1808 – Carl Spitzweg, a German romanticist painter.

Below – “Music-Making Hermit before his Rocky Abode”; “The Cactus Friend”; “Spanish Serenade”; “A Woodland Meeting”; “The Butterfly Hunter.”
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“I see no reason for calling my work poetry except that there is no other category in which to put it.” – Marianne Moore, American poet, who died 5 February 1972.

“A Graveyard”

Man, looking into the sea—
taking the view from those who have as much right to it as you have it to yourself—
it is human nature to stand in the middle of a thing
but you cannot stand in the middle of this:
the sea has nothing to give but a well excavated grave.
The firs stand in a procession—each with an emerald turkey-foot at the top—
reserved as their contours, saying nothing;
repression, however, is not the most obvious characteristic of the sea;
the sea is a collector, quick to return a rapacious look.
There are others besides you who have worn that look—
whose expression is no longer a protest; the fish no longer investigate them
for their bones have not lasted;
men lower nets, unconscious of the fact that they are desecrating a grave,
and row quickly away—the blades of the oars
moving together like the feet of water-spiders as if there were no such thing as death.
The wrinkles progress upon themselves in a phalanx—beautiful under networks of foam,
and fade breathlessly while the sea rustles in and out of the seaweed;
the birds swim through the air at top speed, emitting cat-calls as heretofore—
the tortoise-shell scourges about the feet of the cliffs, in motion beneath them
and the ocean, under the pulsation of light-houses and noise of bell-buoys,
advances as usual, looking as if it were not that ocean in which dropped things are bound to sink—
in which if they turn and twist, it is neither with volition nor consciousness.

Below – “The Bottom of the Sea,” by Andre Masson.
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Here is one critic describing the background and artistry of Irish painter David Quinn (born 1970): “Quinn was born in County Galway and grew up in Sligo. He studied art at the National College of Art and Design in Dublin and painted there for a number of years after graduating. Following two years based in Clifden, County Galway he settled in County Mayo where he currently lives and works.
Quinn is best known for his atmospheric, figurative, landscape based paintings which draw on the Mayo countryside and its vernacular architecture and gardens.”
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“A paranoid is someone who knows a little of what’s going on. A psychotic is a guy who’s just found out what’s going on.” – William S. Burroughs, American novelist, short story writer, essayist, painter, and author of “Naked Lunch,” who was born 5 February 1914.

Some quotes from the work of William S. Burroughs:

“The first and most important thing an individual can do is to become an individual again, decontrol himself, train himself as to what is going on and win back as much independent ground for himself as possible.”
“There is no intensity of love or feeling that does not involve the risk of crippling hurt. It is a duty to take this risk, to love and feel without defense or reserve.”
“Silence is only frightening to people who are compulsively verbalizing.”
“In the U.S. you have to be a deviant or die of boredom.”
“When you stop growing you start dying.”
“I am not one of those weak-spirited, sappy Americans who want to be liked by all the people around them. I don’t care if people hate my guts; I assume most of them do. The important question is whether they are in a position to do anything about it. My affections, being concentrated over a few people, are not spread all over Hell in a vile attempt to placate sulky, worthless shits.”
There is nothing more provocative than minding your own business.”
“Desperation is the raw material of drastic change. Only those who can leave behind everything they have ever believed in can hope to escape. ”
“Every man has inside himself a parasitic being who is acting not at all to his advantage.”
“Never do business with a religious son-of-a-bitch. His word ain’t worth a shit — not with the Good Lord telling him how to fuck you on the deal.”
“Your mind will answer most questions if you learn to relax and wait for the answer.”
“You were not there for the beginning. You will not be there for the end. Your knowledge of what is going on can only be superficial and relative.”
“Artists to my mind are the real architects of change, and not the political legislators who implement change after the fact. ”
“Smash the control images. Smash the control machine.”
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Nicaraguan painter Salvador Castillo Solorzano was born in Managua in 1958. He has participated in International Exhibitions in Guatemala, Costa Rico, Germany, Taiwan, Canada, Colombia, and the United States.
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A Poem for Today

“On Inhabiting an Orange,”
By Josephine Miles

All our roads go nowhere.
Maps are curled
To keep the pavement definitely
On the world.

All our footsteps, set to make
Metric advance,
Lapse into arcs in deference
To circumstance.

All our journeys nearing Space
Skirt it with care,
Shying at the distances
Present in air.

Blithely travel-stained and worn,
Erect and sure,
All our travels go forth,
Making down the roads of Earth
Endless detour.
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American Art – Part II of IV: Philip Geiger

In the words of one writer, “In 1983, having been on the faculty of Colorado State University, Philip Geiger joined the McIntire Department of Art of the University of Virginia in Charlottesville to teach figure drawing and introductory drawing. He is known for his highly realistic interior domestic scenes with figures sleeping, gathered around a dinner table or sitting alone pensively and quietly.”
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A Second Poem for Today

“One Art,”
By Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
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American Art – Part III of IV: Arthur Dove

Arthur Garfield Dove (1890-1946) is often considered the first American abstract painter.

Below – “Me and the Moon”; “Clouds and Water”; “Sunrise”; “Moon and the Sea”; “Sun”; “Goat”; “Morning Sun”; “Ice and Clouds”; “Gale.”
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A Third Poem for Today

“I am Waiting,”
By Lawrence Ferlinghetti

I am waiting for my case to come up
and I am waiting
for a rebirth of wonder
and I am waiting for someone
to really discover America
and wail
and I am waiting
for the discovery
of a new symbolic western frontier
and I am waiting
for the American Eagle
to really spread its wings
and straighten up and fly right
and I am waiting
for the Age of Anxiety
to drop dead
and I am waiting
for the war to be fought
which will make the world safe
for anarchy
and I am waiting
for the final withering away
of all governments
and I am perpetually awaiting
a rebirth of wonder

I am waiting for the Second Coming
and I am waiting
for a religious revival
to sweep thru the state of Arizona
and I am waiting
for the Grapes of Wrath to be stored
and I am waiting
for them to prove
that God is really American
and I am waiting
to see God on television
piped onto church altars
if only they can find
the right channel
to tune in on
and I am waiting
for the Last Supper to be served again
with a strange new appetizer
and I am perpetually awaiting
a rebirth of wonder

I am waiting for my number to be called
and I am waiting
for the Salvation Army to take over
and I am waiting
for the meek to be blessed
and inherit the earth
without taxes
and I am waiting
for forests and animals
to reclaim the earth as theirs
and I am waiting
for a way to be devised
to destroy all nationalisms
without killing anybody
and I am waiting
for linnets and planets to fall like rain
and I am waiting for lovers and weepers
to lie down together again
in a new rebirth of wonder

I am waiting for the Great Divide to be crossed
and I am anxiously waiting
for the secret of eternal life to be discovered
by an obscure general practitioner
and I am waiting
for the storms of life
to be over
and I am waiting
to set sail for happiness
and I am waiting
for a reconstructed Mayflower
to reach America
with its picture story and tv rights
sold in advance to the natives
and I am waiting
for the lost music to sound again
in the Lost Continent
in a new rebirth of wonder

I am waiting for the day
that maketh all things clear
and I am awaiting retribution
for what America did
to Tom Sawyer
and I am waiting
for Alice in Wonderland
to retransmit to me
her total dream of innocence
and I am waiting
for Childe Roland to come
to the final darkest tower
and I am waiting
for Aphrodite
to grow live arms
at a final disarmament conference
in a new rebirth of wonder

I am waiting
to get some intimations
of immortality
by recollecting my early childhood
and I am waiting
for the green mornings to come again
youth’s dumb green fields come back again
and I am waiting
for some strains of unpremeditated art
to shake my typewriter
and I am waiting to write
the great indelible poem
and I am waiting
for the last long careless rapture
and I am perpetually waiting
for the fleeing lovers on the Grecian Urn
to catch each other up at last
and embrace
and I am awaiting
perpetually and forever
a renaissance of wonder
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American Art – Part IV of IV: Wiley Wallace

Painter Wiley Wallace has earned a BFA from Arizona State University and an MFA from the University of California at Santa Barbara.

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