Q: I can take, say, an image of a pretty Japanese girl and transform her into a series of colorful dots. Now, I ask you, what could be cooler than that?
A: What would definitely be cooler than that would be if I could conjure from a series of colorful dots a real, live, pretty Japanese girl.
(Stay tuned. I'm working on that.)
***
Bottle Art.
Plum Tree Art.
Pepper Art.
***
For the following, I have Adam Gopnik, of The New Yorker, and NPR, to thank. I don't usually republish poetry in this space, but when I do, it is with deep appreciation for the ultimate art form crafted with words. Every word matters; there can be no sloppiness, as simple bloggers like me suffer our readers with, over and over.
A Tale Begun
by Wislawa Szymborska
The world is never ready
for the birth of a child.
Our ships are not yet back from Winnland.
We still have to get over the S. Gothard pass.
We've got to outwit the watchmen on the desert of Thor,
fight our way through the sewers to Warsaw's center,
gain access to King Harald the Butterpat,
and wait until the downfall of Minister Fouche.
Only in Acapulco
can we begin anew.
We've run out of bandages,
matches, hydraulic presses, arguments, and water.
We haven't got the trucks, we haven't got the Minghs' support.
This skinny horse won't be enough to bribe the sheriff.
No news so far about the Tartars' captives.
We'll need a warmer cave for winter
and someone who can speak Harari.
We don't know whom to trust in Nineveh,
what conditions the Prince-Cardinal will decree,
which names Beria has still got inside his files.
They say Karol the Hammer strikes tomorrow at dawn.
In this situation let's appease Cheops,
report ourselves of our own free will,
change faiths,
pretend to be friends with the Doge
and say that we've got nothing to do with the Kwabe tribe.
Time to light the fires.
Let's send a cable to grandma in Zabierzow.
Let's untie the knots in the yurt's leather straps.
May delivery be easy,
may our child grow and be well.
Let him be happy from time to time
and leap over abysses.
Let his heart have strength to endure
and his mind be awake and reach far.
But not so far
that it sees into the future.
Spare him
that one gift,
0 heavenly powers.
(Excerpt from View with a Grain of Sand, copyright © 1993 by Wislawa Szymborska, English translation by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh copyright © 1995 by Harcourt, Inc.)
***
It doesn't really matter how much academics, critics, and others try to abstract their thoughts about what is art. Of course, there is Leo Tolstoy, who, as I've mentioned before, who posed the question bluntly: "What is Art?"
In my view, we remain biological creatures; our eyes define the limits of art. I suspect Tolstoy would agree with me. Thus, I rather like this one:
This, to my eyes, is art.
-30-
No comments:
Post a Comment