Now is the time for the burning of the leaves,
They go to the fire; the nostrils prick with smoke
Wandering slowly into the weeping mist.
Brittle and blotched, ragged and rotten sheaves!
A flame seizes the smouldering ruin, and bites
On stubborn stalks that crackle as they resist.
The last hollyhock’s fallen tower is dust:
All the spices of June are a bitter reek,
All the extravagant riches spent and mean.
All burns! the reddest rose is a ghost.
Spark whirl up, to expire in the mist: the wild
Fingers of fire are making corruption clean.
Now is the time for stripping the spirit bare,
Time for the burning of days ended and done,
Idle solace of things that have gone before,
Rootless hope and fruitless desire are there:
Let them go to the fire with never a look behind.
That world that was ours is a world that is ours no more.
They will come again, the leaf and the flower, to arise
From squalor of rottenness into the old splendour,
And magical scents to a wondering memory bring;
The same glory, to shine upon different eyes.
Earth cares for her own ruins, naught for ours.
Nothing is certain, only the certain spring.

Laurence Binyon, The Burning of the Leaves

Image: Sunflowers, October’s End, © Jan McCartney 2011

Aleksandr Sokurov’s Mother and Son is itself a “little patch of yellow wall,” a film to die to. The brilliance of Mother and Son is how it turns perspective and perception against us. Inspired by 19th century German painter, Caspar David Friedrich, this is a film compulsively aware of itself as two-dimensional; through the use of special distorting lenses, Sokurov collapses foreground, middle-ground, and background, erasing the illusion of depth. A static blur hangs, like an immovable fog, around the sides of the frame, effectively eliminating peripheral vision—and perhaps foreshadowing, as an artist’s work is wont to do, Sokurov’s recently rumored, slowly impending blindness.

This collapse of perspective applies equally to Mother (Gudrun Geyer) and Son (Aleksei Ananishnov), both of whom, as is clear from an opening scene in which they recall having the same dream, are elemental presences playing out an intimate and ritualistic death-rattle pas de deux. And yet there’s a strong subversive undercurrent running through Mother and Son, suggesting its protagonists are somehow in collusion, attempting to cheat and ultimately escape divine law. This only becomes explicit in the film’s final scene when the Son attends to his Mother’s corpse and whispers, “We will meet where we agreed. Wait for me.”

Full review at Slant Magazine.

Image: Sunflowers, © Jan McCartney, 2011

Draw a line. Write a line. There.
Stay in line, hold the line, a glance
between the lines is fine but don’t
turn corners, cross, cut in, go over
or out, between two points of no
return’s a line of flight, between
two points of view’s a line of vision.
But a line of thought is rarely
straight, an open line’s no party
line, however fine your point.
A line of fire communicates, but drop
your weapons and drop your line,
consider the shortest distance from x
to y, let x be me, let y be you.

Poem by Martha Collins from Some Things Words Can Do, Sheep Meadow Press, 1998

Image: Parking Lines, © Jan McCartney, 2011

Zombie faces don’t scare me, but the Monolith, with its mindless determination and relentless advance, makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck. The stuff of dreams, and there is no escape. The stuff of reality as well.

2011 – A Space Odyssey: In the most literal narrative sense, the Monolith is a tool, an artifact of an alien civilization. It comes in many sizes and appears in many places, always with the purpose of advancing intelligent life. Arthur C. Clarke has referred to it as “the alien Swiss Army Knife”; or as Heywood Floyd speculates, “an emissary for an intelligence beyond ours. A shape of some kind for something that has no shape.”

(thanks, Wikipedia!)

Image: Monoliths, © Jan McCartney, 2011

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;
And further still at an unearthly height,
A luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.

Poem by Robert Frost
Image:  Skydome, Toronto, from the Gardiner Expressway, Rainy Night, © Jan McCartney, 2011

This one, though, caught my attention today as I look forward to the opening, at the Art Gallery of Ontario, of the paintings of Jack Chambers, a local artist whose art film, The Hart of London, exposed our uneasy relationship with nature as our towns encroach on habitats. This is particularly poignant today as we read about the 50 animals from an exotic zoo in Zanesville, Ohio, most of whom were summarily gunned down by police after their owner set them loose then committed suicide.

Like the doe that was hit by a car then shot four hours later by police a few blocks from my house last month. Like The Hart of London.

It wasn’t Monday or even a week-day morning. Everyone else in the subway car  was checking their e-mail, watching a video, listening to music or playing an online game. This woman was just deep in thought. The only person in the subway car that I could see that wasn’t detached from herself.

Shug: More than anything God love admiration.
Celie: You saying God is vain?
Shug: No, not vain, just wanting to share a good thing. I think it pisses God off when you walk by the colour purple in a field and don’t notice it.

Excerpt from The Colour Purple by Alice Walker

Image: Woman on Subway, © Jan McCartney, 2011

‘the dazed state of chris friel’s images provoke uncertainty – a memory that may or may not have happened; dream matter, foggy and interrupted’
- raji kaur

“I am more interested in interpretation than representation”.

In an interview on his website, Chris describes the solitary working process of walking long distances along the southeast English coast, usually in the rain, and taking far too many pictures. His images incorporate tilt-shift and blur, He cites the late UK photographer, Fay Godwin, as an inspiration, although his portraits remind me of some of Diane Arbus’ images.

Prepare to be amazed at the landscape and portrait photography by Chris Friel

Magic theatre. Not for madmen only.

Chris Friel’s website

The installation Radioactive Control was created for the Dockville Festival in Hamburg which tried to demonstrate, in a humorous tone, the paranoia that we are suffering from since the escape of radioactive material in Japan, has brought into question the safety systems at the nuclear power plants.

With our mysterious army of 100 illuminated radioactive figures, which advanced threateningly on the natural environment of the festival, we wanted to invite reflection regarding the use and abuse of nuclear energy, cheap in economic terms, but which can cause grave secondary effects for the environment and health, forever irreversible.

Germany has been the first developed country to announce the total abandonment of nuclear energy by 2022, we know that this was not an altruistic decision and has a lot to do with the creation of new and innovative industries, which will make them pioneers in the market. But just in case they change their minds, we already know that what politicians legislate today, they change tomorrow with impunity, we wanted to simulate, for the festival, a life under the constant threat of nuclear accidents.

Excerpted from Luz Interruptus via Edouard Olszewski on Google+.

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