Reinterpreting the old adage as “a stitch in nine saves time,” Hamer’s artistic goal is to slow down time through her obsessive stitching of kinetic signs, and thus explore the idea of movement in her work.
“Perhaps,” she concluded, “my work is really more about time than stitching.”
(via The Atlantic)
Still they lingered, looking about them, and all at once unaccountably, the wind of something that was almost happiness wafted through them all, though in each one it took a different form, and all thought in each one it took a different form, and thought what they felt was singular and unique and so were unaware of this brief moment of concord. Then it was gone, the god of inspiration flew elsewhere, and everything was it had been.John Banville, Ghosts
J. P. Donleavy is, arguably, the funniest living American novelist, but the circumstances of his life and work require a person making that argument to qualify and amplify and clarify certain facts. For instance, J. P. Donleavy is not dead. At 87, he lives a bit like a genial hermit, a bit like a gentleman farmer. He looks a lot like a stately imp, in his red bucket hat and green flannel shirt, as he sits with his back to a fireplace spilling ages of ashes into the kitchen of his stone manor-house at Levington Park, a rambling estate 50-odd miles west of Dublin. Out on the acreage, four dozen cows graze beneath the gray bowl of the sky.
This is it, in a nutshell: how writing works. The scattering, the loss; the charge coming from somewhere else, some point forever beyond reach or even designation, across a space of longing; the surge; coherence that’s only made possible by incoherence; the receiving which is replay, repetition—backward, forward, inside out or upside down, it doesn’t matter. The twentieth century’s best novelist understood this perfectly. That’s why Ulysses’s Stephen Dedalus—a writer in a gestational state of permanent becoming—paces the beach at Sandymount mutating, through their modulating repetition, air- and wave-borne phrases he’s picked up from elsewhere, his own cheeks and jaw transformed into a rubbery receiver …
~ Tom McCarthy, Transmission and the Individual Remix
My concept for the Memorial Sørbråten proposes a wound or a cut within nature itself. It reproduces the physical experience of taking away, reflecting the abrupt and permanent loss of those who died. The cut will be a three-and-a-half-meters-wide excavation. It slices from the top of the headland at the Sørbråten site, to below the water line and extends to each side. This void in the landscape makes it impossible to reach the end of the headland.
Hermits once enjoyed a hundred years of fashion in the garden, drawing to a close in the 1830s. The dramatist Tom Stoppard then brought them back into the limelight of London’s West End. In 1993 his admired play, Arcadia, included the proposal that a hermitage should be built in the gardens of fictional Sidley Hall in Derbyshire. The landscape designer, Mr Noakes, suggests that a candidate could be found by advertising in the newspaper. “But surely,” his patroness Lady Croom replies, “a hermit who takes a newspaper is not a hermit in whom one can have complete confidence.”@ FT.com
My article about Richard Hamilton at the Tate, and especially his political paintings, is published today by Studio International… Read it here: http://studiointernational.com/index.php/richard-hamilton-at-tate-modern-london