Saturday, February 27, 2016

Found art Friday 196

Dear ones,
Where were we? We were home-home-on -the range.
  We were tasting actual winter that was at once soft, yet crunchy with powerful gusts of wind.

Yesterday, the ghost in the machine visited and ate our entire blog post in the blink of an eye. Operator Error.  We decide to re-paste the gist. Of the grist we try to mill with the word and image.

While in the winter, The Art Ranger was indeed Visiting the Maternal Unit.  We need to make an imaginary phone call:  where is Oliver sacks when you need him?  Hello? Hello? ....... We want to understand why.... Materna's memory seemed portrayed by this snow drift.  Layers of ephemera, shifting in the wind, melting and falling again, sometimes connecting sometimes not.

Nonetheless, despite her post octogenarian status, together we slapped on popsicle sticks with upturned edges and went downhill, carving tracks into snow, entertained by gravity.  Why do we insist on being buffeted around by the elements atop a mountain, when we could be down below sipping chocolate by the fire?   Nature is boss, it reminds us, and it causes our noses to run.

While we were away from our desk:  Richard Anthony, our original Sculpture Brother, dispatches some vignettes:
Richard Anthony finds this on stage floor:  for the " Homeland of Inspiring Detritus"
Can one savor just the right amount of memory?  How much do we really need?  How does our brain's electrical system really work? What comes out of storage, and how? And what if the whatnot that our generation stores in computers-"the cloud", was actually fluttering about on top a kitchen table?
A glove is required to protect a wall from being scarred
All gratitude for the glove:

For love of the glove that saves,  which somehow brings us right to this:
The "Sculpture" of Richard Serra, circa 1972
Photography does not capture the physics or heft of moving around in space with these unfurlings:
Richard Serra

How gravity itself could be the medium, and raw materials are just being themselves.  This was a  moment of art experience-education, that dissolved lines between "painting" as a medium, or sculpture on pedestal.  It was the smackdown of art activating physical space in relation to the body.

We close with this innersmile giving morsel:
Inside cover from book purchased at Powells, which is a nice way to not feed the monster.

Have a stellar week and do send us a picture through the ether some day, right here:

Friday, February 12, 2016

Found Art Friday 195

Dear ones,
We have no idea why we began to count these, do you?  But it does help one step follow the next, as  you hover a foot's worth of thought energy onward. What (art) that found us this week was actually severely not art, but the antithesis of it:
recent development in the neighborhood
whereas we had been such a fan of this former mailbox for years
 Similar to this un-poetic mishap; once an ingenious home:

and in 2016:  a state of the nation address?  All no, no, and no,
These visual upsets make us cherish the messiness of unexpected sightings:

such as cowpie with super orange fungi - say it now, sing it now!
Oh MY, Nature produced this elegant, infinite, elastic lichen ladder on a walk

 A portrait of time passing is mostly holes.  How could we ever make some art even half as sweet as that?

or this?
 To counteract the art deficits, Art Ranger's job is to appreciate the ragged edge of artfulness, of bent dented, dried out or hand-wrought, retrofit and lived through surfaces; perhaps using oodles of glue:
At the upscale mall:  Custom Van with red door and broken coffee cup - 
  Right off the bat, we wanna hear (or imagine) the life story here
(before "security" arrives).

Hey, how is your ecosystem doing? Are your blossoms confused?
DIY non-skid ramp witnessed by #1 Son.  Have we finally made an impression?
Please shed a light and share it here:

Friday, February 5, 2016

Found Art Friday 194

Dear Ones,
Some weeks are shaped like tunnels you have to get through, and so here we are, out another side.
On our mind that must trickle out, four years ago this week we lost dear friend and poet, Stacy Doris.  Rather than paralysis, we reach out to her cyberously, as she helped hatch the idea of doing a blog.

"in the spirit of elegies and sonnets for our friend who leaves a long one" 
where shadows come from
Julie notes

We are looking at the slope and the intersections that people weave with one another.   She said it near the edge, something about "how a life only arrives at having meaning, due to its limit."
Death must be a call and response then
This week in February always does this: we miss our friend and the world is less now than it was.  And it is heart rendering to think about.  Since she was the best one at listening, let's please go have a cup of tea right now to celebrate her life.  There.

And how are you?

no one paints better than gravity
And this week, to boot, was a technological meltdown here at The Department of Homeland Inspiration.  A yank in the chain of sanity.  A punch in the brain.  Her interface, Ms Apples, softly crashed so hard with a flickery,  ---- gone, the chime, then a stuttering ---- grey dash, and blankness. Cool unapologetic blackness.  Nothing like the radiator smell helping you understand what just happened.  A lousy silent exit. 

you imagined the labor of your thoughts fizzled and piffed into the universe - what were you holding on to anyway?
What now is physical? What is mystical, what is musical?  Regardless, It's gone all gone, gone from the shiny rectangle.
A lot of driving around her rectangles to get their heads cleaned and wiped.
She became alarmed to note just how much of her brain activity is seated in the machine, how many times in its absence, she felt a pull toward it in order to communicate, to learn, or yearn for a harmonica in the key of G or a pair of socks on sale.  And that little chewing gum sized back-up drive, we don't want to talk about it.  Art Ranger was trying very hard to have faith in the young bald man with a skin-colored mole who called her computer "Goofed".
All week, she practiced practicing Mindful Breathing, hoping fervently that the "data" please could be saved/ retrieved, relieved relived.

 PHEW!  WHEW!  yes - they- (it?) did it!!!
 who should receive the thank you chocolate, honey, flowers?

Meanwhile, in the gym basement where the tragi-comedy of humanity lays itself bare, WHO KNEW?  how little breathing we have actually been doing all this time.  Good Heavens there are seemingly endless outcroppings of flesh and bone who would appreciate receiving more breaths of fresh air.
And a new awareness of all ball bearings housed in the body.
First Daffodil already here: we prefer bulbs to Jesus

Please do fill our new clean inbox with Art that has found you: