Thursday, November 29, 2012

swampy with endless canvas

I think it was 2009 when I ran across a journal of this artist named
Swampy.. maybe it was a Flickr account.  His story about finding
himself lost was breathtaking.  The image above is from the images
that swirled around from him.  And then it struck me, what an
absolute truth of where we are right now, lost.
Today I did a search for his name and found what has happened..
check it.

It looks like this has just happened in Berkeley, California.  Art,
street art, everlasting rainbows.

Endless Canvas : Special Delivery Bay Area 2012
Video: Mapache Films
Audio: Todd Sykes
Description by Babak:
"On Saturday night, September 8, 2012,
I and thousands of others witnessed the concrete and steel ruin
that is Carbon Warehouse in the old Flint Ink building at
1350 Fourth Street, Berkeley return to technicolor life as a free,
underground art gallery.
For hours, we gawked at the fabulous graffiti that covered close
to every inch of the building, with music, beer and wine,
and an electric atmosphere that should make world art hubs
like London, Berlin and Venice blush.
Because, on that night, Berkeley appeared talented, fearless
and exciting, and in a humble, inclusive way, a bastion of public art."
read the full and extraordinary description here.

bloody mary and a bicycle

Melisaki girl by Evelyn at The Yard PDX

One of my closest friends and confidants in the whole world was
sharing more of her story, in this life, with me a couple nights ago.
She said that maybe if I can share more of my lifestyle across the
world, maybe it will pull a direction of what the hell to do with
this life right now.  I will work on it.. it's not always joy joy over 
here, surrealism is so much more fun even if it's dirty.  My life, what
the hell is it and who the hell cares.  So I have done and continue
to struggle and do, yes, I do things.
Which brings me to the image of the girl on the bike.  A metaphor
for the intensity sometimes.. it captures, perfectly.
  • bicycle too large yet riding is so free it does not matter,
    she may fall off but damnit she will ride it with integrity
    and sometimes a giggle
  • short hair
  • dirty face and awake eyes
  • pink shirt with jumper, mary janes and orange knee highs
What I can say is that I will work on sharing the bobbles, quirks, 
rushes of enthusiasm and tyranny of restraints, filtered or unfiltered
humour, corners, theory, bloody mary, and of course the disco ball. 

Monday, November 26, 2012

under the root holidays secret code

Under The Root holidays secret code
domestic and international free ships, shiparooni and secret handling with code 
"wormwood".. love from the forest

wardrobe Under The Root
photography Libby Loo Photography
hair Amyrose Ahlstrom
makeup Sarah Jordan
Nessa June Lyons and Areana Cirina as Little Ida's Flowers

Saturday, November 10, 2012

the raven and nightwalkers

The Raven by Kevin Dooley

The Raven by Sam Keith

The following poem was written by Edgar Allen Poe, so many of 
his written words touch deep into the hearts of many.  
The strangely wicked and stranger still reality of our imagination.
I have been working on a new collection for aw2013 and found
my wanderings continue to return to the blackbird, ghosts and
love.  Under The Root is nominated for the semi-finals of 
Portland RAWartists and it is here I will use three of the newest
designs.  If you have not read The Raven, it is minute in size
and voluptuous in volume.   Without a television of my own right
now, while searching for illustrations I found out there is a movie
about to release about such too.. silly, wildly coincidental.
Another time is for the story of playing pool with John Cusack
and Steve Pink..

The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`Tis some visitor,’ I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.’

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; – vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow – sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me – filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more, 

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,’ said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you’ – here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

The Raven by Gustave Dore

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!’
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!’
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,’ said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
‘Tis the wind and nothing more!’

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,’ I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning – little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.’

The Raven by Gustave Dore

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered – not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.’
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.’

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,’ said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of “Never-nevermore.”

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.’

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,’ I cried, `thy God hath lent thee–by these angels he has sent thee
Respite–respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’

`Prophet!’ said I, `thing of evil! – prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted – tell me truly, I implore -
Is there – is there balm in Gilead? – tell me – tell me, I implore!’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’

`Prophet!’ said I, `thing of evil! – prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us – by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’

`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!’ I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! – quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted – nevermore!

The Raven by Antonio Frasconi