Belgian Kerfuffle

I've just completed a short story by the Chilean writer Roberto Bolano, called Vagabond in France And Belgium. In the story, the central character discovers a Belgian literary magazine called Luna Park in a Parisian second-hand bookstore. I decided to search for it and it turns out that it has a beautiful cover, as you can see.
I was unsure whether it was a real publication or not, even though that's irrelevant. However, had I not bothered to follow it up, I would never have found this little picture.
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Death of The Bourgeois

The sculptor Louise Bourgeois has died. Here's a tourist photo I took in Brazil of one of her monumental spiders.
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Stills From Moving Images

Paul Sharits, T,O,U,C,H,I,N,G, (1968)

Sharits was a member of the Fluxus movement. I prefer this still to the actual film, which is also good, but doesn't survive well in its YouTube incarnation, hence its absence. It appears ancient and mystical, like a cave-painting, where limbs become elongated and coloured in bizarre, necessitated approximations.

Whereas, I know nothing of the film from which this next still is taken, I just thought my friend Susie might like it, since it contains a 70s leotard and an overall video-matic grain that appeals to nostalgic VHS-lovers.


Nam June Paik, Global Groove (1973)

The Liver Is The Cock's Comb

When I was at university I read a fair bit about Arshile Gorky and it seems he was as much a shape-shifter in his life as he was in his biomorphic art. No-one really knows when he was born and his personal life was mired in tragedy until his early death. I've never obsessed over Gorky like I have with other artists, but I definitely find his imagery alluring and therein lies his appeal to me, rather than personal facts.

The title of this painting is amazing - a real breath of fresh air compared to the blankness of 'Untitled' (which has its own merits in allowing an artwork to speak for itself). It's a vivid title, just like the painting, which creates a world for you to explore and mull over.

I really relish the task of naming songs or albums, as it happens (my friends and I have spent hours laughing at fictional band names, but actual band names are a pain in the bum...).

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New Gravity

I've just got hold of a copy of Swithering by the poet Robin Robertson. Here's something pertinent he said in 2008:

"Art is difficult and I don't see why we should shy away from it. We live in such a disposable age that anything that needs a second thought is ignored. We are missing out on the real sustenance."

And here's a touching poem by Robertson:

New Gravity

Treading through the half-light of ivy

and headstone, I see you in the distance

as I'm telling our daughter

about this place, this whole business:

a sister about to be born,

how a life's new gravity suspends in water.

Under the oak, the fallen leaves

are pieces of the tree's jigsaw;

by your father's grave you are pressing acorns

into the shadows to seed.

This poem is from the collection, A Painted Field.

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