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Sharon Passmore 10-05-2016 08:39 PM

Night & Day

Ann Drysdale 10-21-2016 02:20 PM

You are the one...

Sorry - at first nothing came up and then suddenly - there it was.

I have been worrying about you and your posts because there seems to be no interest in them. I wrote a long explanation of why I (and presumably others) find it hard to say anything sensible in the way of comment on these pieces, but I somehow managed to delete it between here and there. I found the details of "how" you made them interesting because it gave me an idea of how the things would feel (beads and beans and stuff) and even smell (glitter and glue and acrylic paint) but I had no sensible response in terms of the art. In one case I wanted to say that I didn't "like her face" and that sounded so shallow and silly that I could not bring myself to say it. It smelt of yak (remember that post?)

Could we do another poet/painter collaborative challenge? I got a couple of good poems from the last time, plus some interesting discussion on our responses and process.

John Whitworth 10-22-2016 12:17 AM

I like this as it appears here and would probably like it still better if I could see the texture. My daughter has shown me similar paintings (not by her) so there is obviously a tradition. How big is it?

Sharon Passmore 10-23-2016 10:48 AM

John, This is a digital image. It's a combination of two different photographs, one of a tree in the sunlight, turned sideways, and one of a downtown street at night. Aa a digital image it has no texture at all until it's printed and then it will assume the texture of the support it's printed on. I guess I would be leaning towards a linen paper since that paper has a slight grid to it and that would relate nicely to the squares the neon filter created around those night lights. My printer tells me that he can print that at the best quality at 15' x 12.5". It can go smaller of course, but any lager becomes distorted and blurry.

I just caught the typo in my last sentence, but I'm leaving it because it's kinda funny.

Ann, I think I know what you are talking about. It is a bit difficult for people of one art form to slip into discussions of another type. I've been thinking about your idea of having another collaborative challenge. This would be fun and mix it up a little but, at the moment, we just don't have many artists participating at Erato. I was considering starting a thread at the "Art Museum" about a comparison of poetry vs. visual art. I hope you will join in! Maybe it would be fun to crit a poem as if it were a painting and crit a painting (or other visual work) as if it were a poem. Did you know visual art can have "rhyme"?

Ann Drysdale 10-24-2016 03:24 AM

Well, I've always thought of Warhol's four Mickey Mice as a quatrain.

I know in my heart that Ekphrasis is not the only way to cross the divide but in practice others are hard to find.

Is there "One Art"? In her poem of that title, Elizabeth Bishop merely proposes the notion that one of many arts (that of handling loss) is less hard to master than others.

I've been interested in the way that "art" and "science" begin from apparently different places and run parallel in the foreground, but the further you take either discipline the nearer they seem to get and I lust after the meeting/ vanishing point that visual art shows me, making a reality from an optical illusion.

I'd like to do something similar with your art and my art, with visual image and poetry (which, for me, begins in my ears because they are what I "see" with). I get hung up on the inevitably subjective decision between "good" and "bad" which is hopelessly entangled with "like" and "ugh". (Have you been reading the Dylan thread on GT, f'rinstance?)

I am, unfortunately, deficient in the actual language of litcrit, so I couldn't apply it to the visual arts any more than I can to my own.

I'm going to look for the threads where we met and challenged and discussed process. You look too, and between us we'll find them and post links so others might see what we're on about. I am looking round me at the art I've bought because I wanted to live in the light from it and asking why it makes me happy.

Editing in to say I've found the last one we did:

And that, once upon a time, there were regular challenges on D&A but they seem to have been geared to visual responses.

Sharon Passmore 10-24-2016 10:22 PM

How fun it was to re-read that old post. I am sad I can't see Pat's image anymore.

Art and science have always been hand-in-hand, visual art at least. New developments in optics, dyes, printing etc...have always been precursors to new art forms and styles. I love it.

What search terms are you using to find these old threads?

I am formulating a challenge thread in my mind about critiquing a visual artwork as though it were a poem or critiquing a poem as though it were a work of visual art. What do you think of that idea?

Would you consider critiquing "Night & Day" as though it were a poem? Would it be metrical or non-metrical? Does it rhyme? Are there any cliches? In poetry, people discuss imagery, how can that translate when the whole shebang is an image?

Ann Drysdale 10-25-2016 03:20 AM

I'll try to do that, Sharon. Watch this space.

Finding the threads? I clicked on your name, looked at your profile, clicked on your statistics and checked out the threads you've initiated. Et voilà.

Woody Long 10-25-2016 01:42 PM

Sharon & Ann —

I've looked at Night and Day off and on since it was first posted.

There is a kind of rhyme in that Night and Day are juxtaposed in opposition, though interconnected by the lighted filaments.

For me it's somewhat unsettling that Night has conventional up and down orientation and Day is sideways. I've wondered if that's supposed to say something.

I keep wanting them both vertical, though I can see how that would be difficult. Different trees with more horizontal limbs maybe. & a prominent trunk might look like an intrusion.

When I posted the link in Art Museum to Edward Picot's animation of Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird, I thought that what Picot had done was a kind of reverse ekphrasis (visual art more or less commenting on a poem). It think his presentation is distinct from illustration of poems, even sequential illustrations as in Dave Morice's Poetry Comics (an example extract here).

The computer allows for the possibility of such things. Maybe there is software somewhere that facilitates it. Otherwise it would be almost impossible for us non-programmers.

Anyway, reading your conversation prompted me to chime in, since I have been musing on this for some time.

— Woody

Sharon Passmore 10-27-2016 10:36 AM

Hi Woody,
I actually don't remember why I turned the trees. It's possible that it was to do with the sizes of the two images, although cropping them to be the same size would not have been a big deal.

I suspect it was that I didn't want the light strings to appear as though they were garlanded in the tree. That would seem a bit cliché to me, like a Christmas decoration. In art, as in poetry, cliché is a no-no. Compare these two images of crying. In one of these the cliché turns it into a cookie tin.:

Where is the line? Is it "show and don't tell" as in poetry? (It's not like many works could stand up to a Picasso, just sayin')

I think I also preferred the light strings to be going the same direction as the branches because that visually rhymes better, having similar shapes and motion. The motion flows across all the segments giving the entire piece a unity.

I remember "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird".
It was wonderful. I would say that it differs from an illustrated poem in that the art assumes equal importance, whereas normally apoem illustration takes a subordinate role.

Why is this reverse ekphrasis and not simply ekphrasis?

My favorite thing about a piece like the blackbird is that it is non-linear. This is a new artform since the computer age. Artists always embrace new technologies.

Ann Drysdale 10-27-2016 12:37 PM

Saw one of those pictures a while back. Wrote this...

She Weeps

He rearranged my face.
He beat it black and blue till it became
A broken benchmark, archetype of grief.

I am a camera. As his great work grew
I froze it carefully in fat quarters
and quilted it together in the dark.

I make his art my art, he makes me his.
Scary, surreal; I declare myself
his muse, his mistress, his amanuensis.

I am a soap-soft baby armadillo
curled in a shell, hard and impregnable.
He is spooning me out with a palette knife

breaking my face, scraping it back together;
making me weep because it is important.
Because women are suffering machines.

Ann Drysdale 10-29-2016 02:47 AM

Sharon, that last post was a placeholder while I tried to do a crit of the picture as a poem, as I promised I would and I'm getting desperate. The poem was a mixture of what I felt and what I knew, not a collage but a cakemix, fork-twiddled to a dropping consistency and baked in my own head-oven. It is not a "critique" of picture, artist or model. It is a poem, which is a thing I think I can do. There is an element of me in it, like a secret spice or a particular wrist-action.

If I flex my muscles on the easiest of the three pictures, I find it slightly offensive because tears only come out of that bit of eyes when they are driven by one of those gizmos that clowns use, to make a huge and obvious boo-hoo: "Look at me, poor Tramp, Auguste has made me cry". Nonetheless, I think that if the three were sold as prints in a high street shop, that picture would outsell the others. Saying that says more about me than the art, though, and I feel helplessly out of my depth.

But at some point I need to move away from the picture I know and love and relate to, past the one that makes me feel hatefully superior onto the one that I am supposed to be addressing.

I am trying, I really am. I feel as if I am looking at one of those vertical blinds, through which I am being asked to peer and before I can push it aside and look at the bit that interests me, I need to draw it together to see what's on it. A sort of popular paisley, pastel, Barbie, princess, peacock. I know I couldn't live with it and would need to shove it further aside so as to better see the real "beyond" of it, like taking a glass of wine up to the top of my garden so as to look over the house to see the lights on the other side of the valley.

And I realise that I'm doing that with the art in my life, moving aside the Keane to see the Picasso, so to speak. And in Night and Day the strings of bubble-beads that link the two are the mystery that I need to solve before I can make any meaningful critique of the art either as picture or poem. (I restructured that sentence to avoid using "critique" as a verb. I am a pedant.)

Trying to (write it) critique Night and Day in terms of either discipline just revels to me the appalling subjectivity of my vision and the lack of academic spectacles through which to look beyond it.

I will try to do better, but I wanted you to know I'm on the case.

Sharon Passmore 10-29-2016 11:05 AM

Ann, I love your poem. I have re-read it several times since you posted. I get a very different take on the painting, though. I don't see Picasso beating and braking the woman I see him understanding the woman. Either way, he manages to go deeper into her emotion than simple tears. That's why his painting "shows" and the Keane simply "tells".

This could be a good starting point for comparing visual art and poetry. I think this will be a fun exercise for "Drills & Amusements". Let's do it there.

I love your quilting references and I was going to respond with fabric swatches a person might have used to quilt the Picasso, but Erato wouldn't let me post more than 5 images in a single post and I got lazy and moved on.

Having read your last post three times, I am still not sure if you think my piece looks like vertical blinds. It does, doesn't it? *giggling here* Earlier, Woody commented about the sideways direction of the tree. I don't know if these things bother me or not. Cesar Cruz said “Art should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable.” Something that makes people want to turn it or spread blinds open might be a good thing. It's a response. Too comfortable is boring.

Here are two different versions of this piece. One I simply flipped sideways after reading these comments. One was how the piece looked before the final filters were applied.


I think I am liking day from one and night from the other.

Ann Drysdale 10-31-2016 06:27 AM

Hmm. The trouble is, the Picasso only"shows" you whatever it is you see when you look at it. That sounds trite but it's exactly what I want to convey. When I was talking about breaking and beating and black and blue, I was talking about the painting, the fragmenting of the image, the use of black and blue to make an image of the "suffering machine" (those are his words and I've put them in Dora's voice, explaining rather than complaining).

I "saw" an artist using his art to make a painting, not a statement as such. By moving the thoughts he suggested, to me, in paint, to words that, for me, replicate them, I am making art from art, as Dora's photos did. Even her famous Père Ubu riffs off Jarry's play as my poem did off her face.

But it's not "critique" as such. I am going to have to admit to failing to be able to criticise your picture as if it were a poem. Because it isn't. I have had several tries and all ended (once, literally) in tears. I can't see rhymes with my eyes, unless they are word eye-rhymes. Although I can see your music I can't re-create it in words that don't sound like a smart-arse, self-serving "this is me, saying what I see" and who in hell cares what it is that I see when it can only come across as a representation of what I hear. I can't move far enough back to create a real, generous critique. You and Picasso and Vermeer can show and show, but, in response, I can only tell.

I'm trying to explain; when I look at something, I can't "see" it until I tell myself what it is I'm looking at and the words I use to describe it turn into a subjective "reality"; like my comment about looking through the blind - which you found alarming, albeit giggle-inducing.

I can't make any sense of it in poetic (critical) terms because it's a different art, and I am not even disappointed with my attemps to "criticise" it; I am horrified and ashamed.

When we collaborated before, we (well, Pat and I) took ideas from your work and made our own art. I can do that. I will.

(I'll return to our private correspondence to help work out a challenge for D&A)

Sharon Passmore 11-01-2016 11:34 AM

Goodness, Ann, don't be horrified and ashamed! This is supposed to be fun. It's not worth tears! - unless, of course, a person is deeply moved to tears by my artistic genius and profound meaning, then tears are OK. :p

This is supposed to expand horizons. For example, now I need to do some research and find out who Dora is (the model in the painting, I assume) and who Père Ubu and Jarry are. It is I who should be ashamed.

You said "...the Picasso only"shows" you whatever it is you see when you look at it. That sounds trite..."
No! It doesn't sound trite at all. That is the entire basis for all "conceptual art", the idea that the art occurs in the viewer's mind and is partly comprised of thoughts and meanings the viewer has in place already. It's the idea that the physical piece of art is simply a catalyst and not the final piece. In that way, a piece of art is different every time it's viewed. I'm not saying Picasso was a conceptual artist. I think some purely conceptual art can get ridiculous. The benefit of the movement is the awareness that all art has a conceptual element - poetry too, I suspect.

In Night and Day we have a tree and a city street. Each viewer brings their own feelings into play. Maybe someone fell from a tree as a child and broke their leg. The sideways orientation of the tree might give them a disturbing feeling while someone who carves handmade canoes might feel an entirely different way.

Someone who drives one of those tourist carriages in a city would react differently to the night scene than someone who is an avid environmentalist and works in urban planning, right? As an artist, I have very little control over what happens after it leaves my hand.

In the Picasso, you were tapping into how it was made, the action of it being painted. Quilting popped into your head. That's very cool. That is a perfectly valid response. I love your poem.

One thing that went through my head was the handkerchief being up to her face and her mouth still being visible. In reality, you wouldn't be able to see both at once, so I was noticing the woman's action. I thought about her wiping her face repeatedly. I thought about how the hankie is so sharp and pointed right at her eyes. (Which also wouldn't be reality - it would be soggy) That's valid too. Both the artist and the model were in motion. We both saw the violence but in different ways.

Just being aware of this conceptual aspect of art makes me feel it was the right decision to turn the tree in Night and Day, to prevent any Christmas tree garland implications.

In these two masterpieces of art, "The Weeping Woman" and "Night & Day" :p I would say "rhyme" occurs...

Between the woman's eyebrows & eyelashes and the stitching on her jacket
Between the edging on her handkerchief and the quilting on her jacket
Between all the triangles and especially the leaves on her hat and the far left wallpaper
Between the handkerchief and the eyelid area
Between her green fingers and her ear - also a tear and her earring

Between the light strings and the branches, especially the shadows of branches on branches
Between the small streetlights and the areas between the smallest branches

I'm looking forward to working on that D&A challenge with you.

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