This Date in Art History: Born 16 September 1878 – Karl Albiker, a German sculptor and lithographer.
Below – “Minerva”; “Ursula”; “Die Kauernde”; “Reitende Amazone”; “Kniende auf Polster”;“Plastik eines nackten Jünglings.”
This Date in Literary History: Died 16 September 2016 – W. P. Kinsella, a Canadian novelist and short story writer best-known for his novel “Shoeless Joe,” which was adapted into the movie “Field of Dreams.”
Some quotes from the work of W. P. Kinsella:
“America has been erased like a blackboard, only to be rebuilt and then erased again. But baseball has marked time while America has rolled by like a procession of steamrollers.”
“Baseball games are like snowflakes and fingerprints, no two are ever alike.”
“Hardly anybody recognizes the most significant moments of their life at the time they happen.”
“Baseball is the most perfect of games, solid, true, pure and precious as diamonds. If only life were so simple. Within the baselines anything can happen. Tides can reverse; oceans can open. That’s why they say, ‘the game is never over until the last man is out.’ Colors can change, lives can alter, anything is possible in this gentle, flawless, loving game.”
“Use your imagination. Trust me, your lives are not interesting. Don’t write them down.”
“Growing up is a ritual, more deadly than religion, more complicated than baseball, for there seem to be no rules. Everything is experienced for the first time.”
“Any game becomes important when you know and love the players.”
“Perhaps crossing the barriers of time has freed me.”
“If you build it, he will come.”
Below – “Color of Me”; “Visionary”; “Inner Wave”; “Blooming Lotus 02”; “Good Fortune”; “In Bloom.”
This Date in Literary History: Died 16 September 2984 – Richard Brautigan, an American poet, novelist, short story writer, and author of “Trout Fishing in America”: Part I of II.
Some quotes from the work of Richard Brautigan:
“It’s strange how the simple things in life go on while we become more difficult.”
“Reduce intellectual and emotional noise until you arrive at the silence of yourself and listen to it.”
“Sometimes life is merely a matter of coffee and whatever intimacy a cup of coffee affords.”
“I’ll affect you slowly as if you were having a picnic in a dream. There will be no ants. It won’t rain.”
“If you will die for me, I will die for you and our graves will be like two lovers washing their clothes together in a laundromat. If you will bring the soap, I will bring the bleach.”
“All of us have a place in history. Mine is clouds.”
“I didn’t know the full dimensions of forever, but I knew it was longer than waiting for Christmas to come.”
“Finding is losing something else. I think about, perhaps even mourn, what I lost to find this.”
“Her sunny side was always up.
“For fear you will be alone you do so many things that aren’t you at all.”
“All girls should have a poem
written for them even if
we have to turn this goddamn world
upside down to do it.”
“One day Time will die
And love will bury it.”
“I drank coffee and read old books and waited for the year to end.”
“Like some kind of strange vacuum cleaner I tried to console him. I recited the same old litanies that you say to people when you try to help their broken hearts, but words can’t help at all. It’s just the sound of another human voice that makes the only difference. There’s nothing you’re ever going to say that’s going to make anybody happy when they’re feeling shitty about losing somebody that they love.”
Contemporary American Art – Dana Myers
Below – “joshua tree”; “venice”; “palm springs”; “bombay beach 1.”
This Date in Literary History: Died 16 September 2984 – Richard Brautigan, an American poet, novelist, and short story writer: Part II of II.
by Richard Brautigan
A piece of green pepper
off the wooden salad bowl:
Below – “Young Venus”; “Hot Day”; “”Dream”; ”Flower A”;
“Kidnapping a Swan”; “Flower V.”
This Date in Literary History: Died 16 September 2004 – Michael Donaghy, an American-English poet and author.
by Michael Donaghy
Dearest, note how these two are alike:
This harpsicord pavane by Purcell
And the racer’s twelve-speed bike.
The machinery of grace is always simple.
This chrome trapezoid, one wheel connected
To another of concentric gears,
Which Ptolemy dreamt of and Schwinn perfected,
Is gone. The cyclist, not the cycle, steers.
And in the playing, Purcell’s chords are played away.
So this talk, or touch if I were there,
Should work its effortless gadgetry of love,
Like Dante’s heaven, and melt into the air.
If it doesn’t, of course, I’ve fallen. So much is chance,
So much agility, desire, and feverish care,
As bicyclists and harpsicordists prove
Who only by moving can balance,
Only by balancing move.