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writer59january13 · 1 year

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Fork git about spooner hiz ham

And join (singing the words in the next paragraph) whether alone in a traffic jam basting, cooking, then eating a lamb prepared by thee missus a superb culinary madam. “A Ram Sam Sam” Lyrics

A ram sam sam, a ram sam sam Guli guli guli guli guli ram sam sam A ram sam sam, a ram sam sam Guli guli guli guli guli ram sam sam A rafiq, a rafiq Guli guli guli guli guli ram sam sam A rafiq, a rafiq Guli guli guli guli guli ram sam sam.

The following dereliction of truth

heavily influenced

my babe of mine name Ruth

(think prevarication forsooth)

essentially crafted countless years, when yours truly

courtesy parochialism bred cooth

preserved timeless tintype of me

many moons ago sitting pretty (once a bonny lad)

with his innocent lass

perched on mine bony knees

while forced lip tulip in kissing booth.

Unlike centenarian

who crafts these words,

perchance yar juiced a young whippersnapper man or woman

maybe born, bread and raised

in the city that never sleeps, or dwelt in the boondocks or sticks, catch some 'possum or squirrel

and as a loyal son or daughter take a tram

to enjoy a tasty repast

with widowed momma,

cuz ever since da

yo papa passed away....,

a futile attempt made to fill that void

awash with more'n than half a century

of wedded bliss,

whereat purposelessness pervasive

per surviving mother,

who feigns happiness, regales others

with showers of affection,

and remains active feeding her avocation

comprising striving and succeeding

to be adept within the culinary arts

thru self taught trials and errors

of brave taste testers

(which guinea pigs ought

to get medal of honor for bravery),

though her exemplary cooking reputation

exceeds five star Michelin rating

through meticulous

and exacting measured ingredients, she glides within the kitchen

however occasionally,

a fork and spoon slips to the floor

which inexplicable

gravitational alchemical phenomena

fuses separate pieces of cutlery

into one eating implement whereupon a dead reckoning

takes shape, that "mum"

might be in mortal danger

per inconspicuous cooking tool, whence ya stop SnapChat tin

and shutterfly as greased BuzzFeed

twittering like a bat out of hell - ya swoop down smash mouth facebook first presaging a fatality visiting

upon the head of mum (her christened name Chris Anne thumb -

the last appended word

linked with her diminutive size),

who intently engrossed,

keenly self absorbed, and rapt attentively

with tasks at hand

most likely oblivious

to potential safety dukes of hazard

as a benevolent offspring temporarily take instagram reprieve,

and utilize fancy footwork

tote hillbilly tubular re: turn

to counterpoise vis a vis

match less laws of physics,

whereby toe tulle lee tubular

test tick yule har kickstarter antics applied

to kindle hurly burly gnarly flatware bach up

adjacent to state of the art beet oven which upright pedal

poised pose like leverage incorporates

quickly donning improvisational

makeshift faux cuirass

with suitable culinary accoutrements stringing together various

geometrical metal trays

and tin pot for helmet, whereby a strategic

stance thence established,

where inert stainless steel

buffoon glaring spork

would be forced

to take tailspin upwards,

whence fingers grab

innocuous lethal weapon,

which self entertainment learned

while stationed in a rack

run amuck mess hall rowdiness

taught said table mannered tricks

magic mike moment imitating hotmail - glorified footlocker earthlinked craft,

where whatsapp tinder penned didst

inviting Barack Obama

to zap hiz frankfurter foot, when he made a syrup prize visit

nobly endeavoring without evincing

auld trumpetting donning shoe purr action

trained first with dominant topface toes

alternating with recessive

opposing shod totally tubular taps

until fancy footwork became ambipedal

balancing ball of left

or right foot atop tine or dish of fork or spoon respectively

as stray stainless steel ware defying gravity

gracefully leapt - somersaulting

in a pirouette pinwheel linkedin arc

tine and/or miniature

shovel scooper over handle

kin ur pinion (all things considered)

an eye opening experience

and the simple pleasure one can derive

from practicing strategy

trigonometry, spatial relations.

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pinkpanthress · 3 years

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#Uploads #Tarot #Card of the Day #PinkPanthress #XXI #The World #MadeInAffinity #Rider Waite Tarot #Esoteric #Faux #Wet Plate Collodion #Fake #Tintype

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mazigazi · 4 years

Photo

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mastersvisualjournalmclain · 3 years

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Hall of Shadows Critical Review Report

Hall of Shadows: An exploration of Australian war crimes and missing information

“I am not going to pass any judgment on the policy of devastating the country. I obey orders, and perhaps it is a wise plan.”

-RL Wallace, The Australians at the Boer War

WHAT:

Hall of Shadows is a mixed media exploration of war crimes by Australians during conflicts in Afghanistan as detailed by The Brereton Report, an extensively redacted investigation into the deaths of civilians and prisoners. Utilising wet plate collodion tintypes and printed materials taken from digital media, Hall of Shadows focuses on creating a visual mirror to our society to see the far-reaching human cost of these war crimes. The work is about reflecting upon the special operations soldiers who committed the crimes, the political and civil authorities who placed them in these situations on behalf of the civilian population and the media who report on the crimes and the report itself.

The work consists of a grid of 15 wet plate collodion tintype still lifes of toy soldiers in miniature dioramas constructed of wooden blocks, along with four A1 sized newsprint banners in various states of use and disrepair. The tintypes are an echo of, and inspired by, the Hall of Memory at the Australian War Memorial in Canberra, which houses 15 stained glass windows, each with a word that is a quality of Australians at war. The form of the banners was influenced by Chinese hanging scrolls, intended for short-term news and propaganda dissemination. The materiality, plasticity, texture, and imperfections of the toy soldiers I had used as subjects in creating the still lifes for my wet plates was underscored to draw the viewer's attention to in the banners. The banners are images taken directly from the pages of the heavily redacted report overlaid with pictures of plastic toy soldiers.

Both works are meant to evoke reflection in viewers. Where the original stained glass windows are lushly coloured and use a Deco font, the tintypes are monochrome and the words scratched into the surface of the metal. The banners are printed on flimsy, disposable newsprint, and with much of the text unreadable.

WHY:

Australia has an ambivalent relationship with military engagement. The Department of Veteran Affairs (DVA) estimates that approximately 2% of the population are veterans, yet there appears to be a disproportionate emphasis, even a reverence, for military action in popular culture. The large sections of military history and accounts which glamourise the military found in books stores reveals something about the popularity and hunger for information about this segment of our society. But much like sports figures whose poor or inappropriate behaviour is overlooked or excused, soldiers and military action are often elevated to positions above critique or reflection or only examined on Anzac Day then forgotten until the next year.

This work was created in hope of raising some questions for the viewer:

Who am I in relationship to these people and events?

How does my image of this history correspond to lived realities?

What agency, if any do I have relative to these events?

Factors that emerged during the creation of the work included the fact that the greater the temporal distance became between the report’s release (November 2020) and the present, the more of a collective and communal shrug there seemed to be about these crimes and any consequences for those who committed them. This seeming public lack of interest led towards processes and materials that were disposable, recyclable, non-permanent and dismissible, just as the acts which were the genesis of the report and the public response to it appeared to be a part of an ever-churning news cycle. The work was created to be both fixed in history with elements of discard and disposability.

WHO:

This work occurs and is informed by a number of photographic, artistic, military and societal communities. Photographically, a historical process is employed in the tintypes and more modern, digital-descended processes for the scrolls. The incorporation of text to both sets of images is relative to the work of Duane Michals, while wet plate photography has been employed extensively by Sally Mann. The use of miniature diorama and tableaus akin to David Levinthal’s work using toy soldiers and dolls was an important example of how applying good technical skills to small subjects can heighten the impact of images. His series Hitler Moves East is a slightly more abstracted work emulating black and white war photographs contemporary to the historical period of 1939-1945.

Returning to the work of Hiroshi Sugimoto and his photographs of diorama’s in museums also proved inspirationally fruitful. Sugimoto’s concept of photographing a faux re-creation of a time, place and event, had significant overlap and relationship to the work in creating the miniature dioramas as backgrounds I was staging seemed particularly relevant to my investigations. Of particular interest and insight is Sugimoto’s observation that “However fake the subject, once photographed, it’s as good as real.”

Roy Lichtenstein’s pop art, particularly, his work Whaam! seemed to share a print-pixelated, quasi-comic book quality the the scrolls/banners. While it initially felt that a connection might exist to the disposable aspect of Lichtenstein’s work, these images seemed less satisfying at communicating more realistic figures of the toy soldiers. The hope for more identification with soldier’s as the subject, rather than objectification simply wasn’t achieved, and so a more realist approach was adopted. (Note: the Lichtenstein Foundation’s website seems abandoned at this point and is available only through internet archives. I include his citation in Wikipedia for reference purposes.

Liz Wells observations about the truth or non-truth and historical uses of photography in commenting upon war continued to be a touchstone. Especially her observation about the uses of photography in establishing and reinforcing communal sentiments about war. “[T]here are no unequivocally great photographs of war, only those that structure or re-enforce feelings already extant within a particular culture.”

Additionally, the work of Alexander Rodchenko was examined, particularly the shift in his work from documentary photography to its use as propaganda. Rodchenko had good reason to make this turn: survival. As the young Soviet state went from photographic and cinematic playground to a more authoritarian state, photographers found ways to either praise Stalin and the new state or perish. In my work I was seeking to neither laud soldiers nor condemn them, but rather, hold up a mirror to the viewer to examine their own conceptions, pre-conceptions and mis-conceptions about military action and those who carry out the policies of the state, especially in ambiguous environments.

How:

The work was realised through a close reading of the available documents, reflection on my own experience in the Afghanistan theatre of operations, and testing with select trusted voices about the efficacy of whether intended messages were being communicated. This last was a necessary counter-balance to a body of work that was grounded deeply in personal experience. The challenge in this path is getting lost in a personal echo chamber where what seems obvious to the creator is completely unreadable to the viewer. Listening to my supervisor, peers and close friend’s readings of the work was exceptionally helpful in maintaining this balance.

With regard to the wet plates, arranging and mounting the images as a call/response to the sacred and mythological tones of the stained glass windows in Canberra was done as a means to open a door to reflection about their own position relative to military engagement. The limitations and ‘defects’ inherent in wet plates was also a desired element of the work. Just as no plate can be clinically ‘perfect,’ so no military action is without casualties.

The later-developed hanging scroll banners afforded an opportunity to use their materiality as fragile, disposable objects that, in their physical structure, reflected the ephemerality of the impact of the news cycle on our collective attention span. This, in turn, allowed for them to develop as a seperate, unified work on their own, standing along side, but different from the wet plate works.

Best practices for health and safety, including mental well-being, were followed throughout the creation of the work.

Test/Speculative Images:

Finalised plate samples, prior to mounting & framing:

Bibliography

Batchen, Geoffrey. (2004.) Forget Me Not: Photography & Remembrance. 1st ed., New York: Princeton Architectural Press.

Laurent, Olivier. (June 15, 2015.) “A Photographer Turns Real-Life Soldiers Into Toys.” Time. Accessed March 10, 2021. time.com/3911329/a-photographer-turns-real-life-soldiers-into-toys/.

Levinthal, David. (1972-75.) “Hitler Moves East.” David Levinthal. Accessed May 28, 2021. davidlevinthal.com/artwork/hme.html.

Sugimoto, Hiroshi. (1994.) “Diorama.” Hiroshi Sugimoto. Accessed May 28, 2021. www.sugimotohiroshi.com/new-page-54.

Wells, Liz. (2015.) Photography: A Critical Introduction. 5th ed., New York: Routledge.

Wikipedia. (2004.) Hanging Scroll. Accessed May 30, 2021. en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hanging_scroll.

Wikipedia. (2002.) Roy Lichtenstein. Accessed May 28, 2021. en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roy_Lichtenstein.

Young, Marnin. (2016.) “Photography and the Philosophy of Time: On Gustave Le Grays Great Wave, Ste.” nonesite.org. Accessed March 18, 2021. https://nonsite.org/photography-and-the-philosophy-of-time/.

Zax, Talya. (2021.) “How Freedom Turned to Propaganda in Soviet Photography.” The Forward. Accessed May 28, 2021. forward.com/culture/322220/how-the-soviet-union-used-photography-as-propoganda/.

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ecotone99 · 5 years

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[MF] The House Upon The Clouds

The old man sits upon his throne of cracked beige leather that has gone sour and musty with the years he no longer cares to count. Splinters of white daylight seep through the half-drawn faux wood blinds and striate across his face, the cleansing light twinkling on his bald head and round-rimmed glasses. Squinting against it his pallid blue-veined lids go red with heat.

He turns his head to the clock on the side table which is also home to a smorgasbord of pill bottles. It reads 11:59 am. He takes three of the bottles, pops the lids and shakes a capsule from each into his hand like candy and downs them with a glass of stale water.

He sits expectantly, hands at his knees and still as a mouse among blind cats.

The clock strikes twelve.

His rotary phone shakes and rattles its piercing banshee wail with a jarring suddenness in the silence that if he were not expecting it, he might have jumped. He lets it ring a moment and takes a deep breath before picking up the receiver.

“Hello?”

The voice on the other end sweet as honey and gentle as an evening breeze in the summer makes his heart race every time. “Hi, Dad.”

“Hi, Frannie.”

“Are you ready to come visit?”

“Maybe, my girl.” the words spill from his mouth almost ritualistically, but still he trembles at them.

“This is the last time I’m going to call, Dad. I just wanted to let you know that.”

He freezes, wanting to say something, but can’t find the words, the guilt and shame a lump in his throat so big that if he were to cough it up, he’d stomp it to a mess of red pulp and phlegm and curse it.

“Dad?”

“I’m here, sweetie.”

“Okay, I have to go now.”

“Can we talk about—”

Dial tone slices through his head like an acquiescent killer, lonely and implacable. He sits listening to it, feeling it necessary to torture himself. The word “yes” escapes his lips, although too late. For twenty years he has been trapped in the purgatory of maybe, forced to walk the lonesome valley between yes and no.

A groan of age escapes his lungs as he pries himself from the chair, the leather crackling and popping as his bare arms separate themselves.

He shuffles across the laminate towards the bathroom, past the photos hung above the fireplace of children frozen in years they’ve long surpassed and sepia tintypes of family forgotten, most cracked with age as if made of glass - some even of himself in times he was alive. Past the windows where behind lies a sky so blue it might be of paper with a hole burned through with a bright yellow flame.

He walks into the bathroom and flicks on the light switch. The cold fluorescent sputters to life, painting the room an unnatural, sterile white. He steps in front of the mirror and stares at the deflated visage before him, his bald head vitreous with sweat and sunken eyes like the heads of white snails in shells of wrinkled flesh ready to slink back into their holes.

At the crown of his head he notices a single hair protruding like the shoot of some strange root vegetable. Yesterday there were two and the day before there were three. Grabbing it with his thumb and forefinger, he gives it a good tug. The hair comes out with what to anyone else might sound like a gentle pop, but to him sounds like a church bell has been rung in the seemingly empty, dusty hall of his skull.

It rings on in an endless reverberation, bouncing around his head until his body goes limp and he lies crumpled and empty on the bathroom floor, the cold linoleum burning his skin. Lying like a dog half dead and whimpering, he sleeps.

In dreams he sees the sun bright and full, its rays spreading out in a golden fan across a town through which people pass and wave hello. Houses line the streets like a checkerboard and among them, his own sits steady and unexceptional. Around the house a manicured green yard lies placid like a calm ocean and bees buzz about the flowers in the garden like frenzied satellites in orbit. On the dull grey stoop before the door to the house he sits and watches his daughter and granddaughter he’s yet to meet walk towards him on the concrete path that bisects the yard. They all smile and the granddaughter breaks free of her mothers grasp and runs towards him.

He wakes cold and coated in a thin film of sweat. Relief crashes over him like a tidal wave as if something has been found - or lost - within. He’s not sure which. Pulling himself back up with the sink, he looks in the mirror one last time and runs a hand over his snowy white bristled jaw and removes his glasses. He no longer wishes to look at old things.

Breathing heavy, he crosses back across the living room, taking care not to look at the photos again, the evening sun beating through the blinds and sketching onto the wall an aureate harp.

He opens the front door and looks down and sees only clouds like a field of blinding white cotton candy separating him and whatever lies below. The scent of them one he hasn’t smelled in years and one that can’t be described. From his pocket he takes out a quarter and drops it. It falls soundlessly through the cloud that seals itself back up as soon as it passes.

Hanging onto the doorknob, he stretches a leg out and brushes the top of the cloud with his foot. He’d pray to God not to fall if he didn’t already live where he’s said to rule. Atop the clouds there are no anachronistic castles of crystal or fountains of marble or gates of gold. No cities built with architecture of the angels or holy men in white. Only white emptiness unplumbed by man save himself.

The tides of extrication brush gently at his feet and fill the spaces between his toes and he can taste its saliferous air salty on his tongue.

Today will be the day. No more tomorrows or laters.

A strange wind blows him back into the house and he saunters over to his bedroom. He tears the sheets off of his bed and tosses them into the living room. His legs feel like they’re going to give as he walks through the kitchen and into the laundry room, but he continues on. He grabs every sheet and blanket from the laundry bin and goes to toss it into the living room. Finally, he grabs the quilt from the sofa that his daughter had sewn for him as a child and places it on the pile and gets to work.

Sitting on his knees, back hunched over, he ties the corners of each sheet and blanket to the other in a grid of colour, his daughter’s quilt in the middle. As a boy his mother had taught him to sew his own clothes after tearing them apart playing, but with his memory not being what it was, can only try his best. The needle dips and dives between each sheet like an ungraceful dolphin leaping through the air from a sea of strange colours, binding them together in an ugly patchwork Frankenstein creature.

After an hour of impatient and hurried sewing, the sun waning, he finishes and looks down upon his work, face gleaming with sweat.

What to anyone else would be thrown in the trash without second thought, he looks upon with a newfound jubilation, ready to finally be divested of all he has been.

He grabs opposite corners of the sheet and swings it back over his head and walks towards the door. Taking a deep breath he turns the knob and pushes it open and looks down at the infinite white before him, his heart beating so hard it feels like there’s a little person inside trying to burst through his chest with a mallet.

Glancing back he gets one last look at the house he’s spent his life and feels something well up in his throat. Time carries on, and so too will the house, but only for so long. A speck of dust waiting to be brushed off by the hands of a clock. But home isn’t a house, not a person, not a place. Home is in your bones.

He turns back around, swings the sheet above his head, and without looking down, jumps into the unknown.

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