Once upon a time, a very long time ago, a husband jumped across a wall because his wife had pregnancy cravings. She was craving this plant called rampion and he’d seen them growing bright and green in his neighbor’s garden. Unfortunately, the garden he jumped into was a witch’s garden. That witch took his baby girl as payment and named her Rapunzel after the rampion. You know the rest of this story.
I always imagined rampion as a sort of lettuce-y thing. But no! Rampion is sort of like a spring onion and sort of like garlic and it grows not only in Germany, but all through the Appalachians. Also, it is delicious, you can cook it in biscuits, add it to eggs, sprinkle it on popcorn.
-Notes from West Virginian travels.
(Unknown graffiti artist & Peonies by Henri Fantin-Latour)
What do you do when you travel? Do you go for the air, the locals, to practice your french? When it is within my means, I like to eat and to see art. I’m quite bourgeois that way.
Isn’t it strange that the peonies are so small and modest and yet their frame is so grand? Fantin was friends with many of the impressionists but he himself remained conservative… steady. Was he afraid or did he just like the old style?
I was amused that he shared color values with this lovely couple whom I met on the street. Friends found in the oddest places.
O thou whose face hath felt the Winter’s wind,
Whose eye has seen the snow-clouds hung in mist,
And the black elm tops ‘mong the freezing stars!
To thee the spring will be a harvest time.
O thou whose only book has been the light
Of supreme darkness, which thou feddest on
Night after night, when Phœbus was away!
To thee the spring shall be a triple morn.
O fret not after knowledge. I have none,
And yet my song comes native with the warmth.
O fret not after knowledge! I have none.
And yet the evening listens. He who saddens
At thought of idleness cannot be idle,
And he’s awake who thinks himself asleep.
– John Keats (1795-1821)
Oh Keats, how glad I am for you that you did not live in the midwest.
Eating fruit and reading poetry, what could be a more decadent friday morning?
“Oh, the feel of the wolftail on the silk,
the strength, the tense
precision in the wrist.
I painted them hundreds of times
eyes closed. These I painted blind.
Some things never leave a person:
scent of the hair of one you love,
the texture of persimmons,
in your palm, the ripe weight.”
1. I was reading a library copy of Native Speaker. One my predecessors had bracketed a passage in which Henry is describing the reasons he loves his wife. The note asks, Why doesn’t he tell her this? It was probably just diligence, an annotation for an essay, one of many marginalia to be made and forgotten. But I like to imagine the midnight reader with her blunt pencil, and the cold tea, just despairing for him. Why doesn’t he tell her this? For a moment, holding my own warm tea I had an urge to tell everyone how sorely I love them.
2. Skipping through the book to photograph it for this blog post, I noticed a comment I hadn’t seen before. A writer’s dream:
3. Libraries are magical.
So I took Jessica Hische’s lettering class on skillshare. It’s a lot of fun, http://skl.sh/1eBPs12. The assignment involved doing a book jacket cover. I chose Carver, who gets a lot of flack these days for being a boring old white men. And although I too have had my fill of boring old white men, Carver writes beautifully. (Which is why he has so many mediocre imitators.)
“I remembered having read somewhere that the blind didn’t smoke because, as speculation had it, they couldn’t see the smoke they exhaled. I thought I knew that much and that much only about blind people. But this blind man smoked his cigarette down to the nubbin and then lit another one. This blind man filled his ashtray and my wife emptied it.” – Cathedral Raymond Carver
I’ve been staying in the home where I grew up. It is a quiet part of the city near a canal. Today, I discovered a bookshop barge. I suppose it should be expected that things change on the water. They say you can never go home, but I disagree. Old homes are like old wines more delicious with age, but still perhaps not wise to overindulge in.
Give Us A Poem Glenn Ligon
If you live in New York and haven’t been to the Studio Museum in Harlem, do it. It’s a beautiful, intimate space. Large museums like the Met are vital, but I find gorge on art and soon can’t taste any of it. A smaller museum can be experienced entirely.
Afterwards I had tea with almond milk with my lovely museuming companion.
Sometimes, tea and a small pat on the wrist can get you through the slushiest afternoon.
Other favourite small museums: The Folk Art Museum, The Museum of Art and Design, The Neue Gallerie. What are your favourite small museums?
So it has been a while since we spoke. It has been a while since I last saw an old friend. A friend of nine years past. Recently, an airline lost my bag and my camera. The replacement encourages me to look at this with new glass.
Just a silly thing I made, because I can never remember the correct way to spell bears in this case. I figured it might help me remember.
Its been a while, but I should be uploading more art here, as time goes on. I just needed a little break.