Embroidery Artist Alaina Varrone
Embroidery Artist Alaina Varrone
Antonio Vivaldi - Concerto Alla Rustica. Concerto in G minor
Jed Wentz, traverso; Manfredo Kraemer, violin; Balázs Máté, violoncello
from: Musica ad Rhenum
Jasper Fforde, The Well of Lost Plots
Coffee & Book
onset of typhoon yolanda. raindrops on the hotel window. lightning at the horizon
Rickie Lee Jones - Trouble Man
from: It’s Like This
You’re gonna make me lonesome when you go…
Henri Cole, in the eighth installment of his ongoing Paris diary: http://nyr.kr/1hnjt92
Audio Visual installation by Robert Seidel projects colourful abstract imagery onto water fountain to music - video embedded below:
The work advection consists of several visual études projected on the continuously changing volume of a water fountain. Interconnected with both the circadian rhythm of their natural surroundings as well as the meteorological nuances of seasonal change from autumn to winter – the fixed études alter their density, texture and luminescence over the exhibition time.
This highly organic pictorial frame spawns a contemporary form of moving abstract paintings or associative drawings. The volumetric fountain, the pond reflections and iridescent flares shape a plasmatic spatial system, which is extended by a secondary video projection. This additional layer illuminates the surrounding area, integrating vegetation and the passing visitors into an abstracted mirage-stage.
Here, twining lines change their density within the evolving volume as fragile light patterns float in the bank of fog. The skeletal music composition is augmented by the sound of rippling water and the rushing fountain. Ultimately flickering projection segments and the emerging natural airstreams break the fluctuating formations, making every loop a unique permutation.
Woman who reads (by Farah Willem)
Scott Walker - Mathilde - Introduced by Dusty Springfield (by StashPuppets)
Dusty + Scott ♥♥
Richard Armitage reads T.S. Eliot’s Preludes
The winter evening settles down
With smells of steaks in passageways.
The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
And now a gusty shower wraps
The grimy scraps
Of withered leaves about your feet
And newspapers from vacant lots;
The showers beat
On broken blinds and chimney-pots,
And at the corner of the street
A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.
And then the lighting of the lamps.
The morning comes to consciousness
Of faint stale smells of beer
From the sawdust-trampled street
With all its muddy feet that press
To early coffee-stands.
With other masquerades
That time resumes,
One thinks of all the hands
That are raising dingy shades
In a thousand furnished rooms.
You tossed a blanket from the bed,
You lay upon your back, and waited;
You dozed, and watched the night revealing
The thousand sordid images
Of which your soul was constituted;
They flickered against the ceiling.
And when all the world came back
And the light crept up between the shutters
And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,
You had such vision of the street
As the street hardly understands;
Sitting along the bed’s edge, where
You curled the papers from your hair,
Or clasped the yellow soles of feet
In the palms of both soiled hands.
His soul stretched tight across the skies
That fade behind a city block,
Or trampled by insistent feet
At four and five and six o’clock;
And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
And evening newspaper, and eyes
Assured of certain certainties,
The conscience of a blackened street
Impatient to assume the world.
I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.
Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.