Oliver Beer Resonance Paintings—Blue Notes 28 January—11 March 2023 Salzburg Villa Kast

“ Nature Walk    ”

Photo by Ishikoro. Japan.

Love & Peace!

Korean artist Choi So Young creates cityscapes out of old jeans found in second-hand shops. every piece of fabric and every button, seam, pocket and belt loop is placed to depict a specific detail of a picture - they become a street, a window or a building, creating these urban landscapes

Here, take this palmful of raspberries as my gift. It isn’t much but we’ve often said our needs are simple, some quiet time alone on the patio in the cool morning, coffee, a few words over the newspaper. I’ve rinsed these berries so you can tumble them right into your cereal, one minute on the vine, the next in your bowl, my hand to your mouth.

— Albert Garcia, from “Offering,” in How to Love the World: Poems of Gratitude and Hope

Anya Gallaccio: Preserve Beauty (1999)

Carmen Maria Machado, In the Dream House

Leila Chatti, “Tea”

  — Penelope’s Song, Louise Glück  

[text ID: Who wouldn't want you? Whose most demonic appetite could you possibly fail to answer?]

Marrying the Violence - Marty McConnell

I have taken the blueprint of your back for granted as if the sidewalk were not an altar and the sound of the shower not a hurricane bearing down – there is no ceremony for this. the night goes on in spite of the rain, much like the mail. make me a bullet of a mouth, sex love and money on the radio. not a bullet, a gun. not a gun, a harbor. to hold you, against this, against the night with its sirens and batons, I fly down the block to you and the lights, in harm’s way, all sixteen muscles of my tongue pulled, meat for the men who don’t love you. my love, ink is fool’s armor. your good luck works on no one in uniform. if it’s true that bone is harder than steel, make me a building, a garden of calcium and mineral in bloom, deadbolt of a spine, you coming home whole, the apartment of my head on your bulletless chest / each time the cry of fight goes up on the street I remember your hand, the man rocking back on his heels, his mouth a sidelong oval shocked into quiet at last, his pale hand torn from your forearm – love, lay your burden down, here, tell me how to make this body a safehouse and not a prison, how hold your hand when its every lifting is an act of self-defense, how take the knife from you and not call it murder, or surrender – the cabdriver, the cop, the woman gripping her purse on the L train conspire – you are already a weapon. I am no building, no shield, less than cotton between the violent night and your skin, less than teeth ground down to bonedust small, white as I am.

Wait - Galway Kinnell

Wait, for now. Distrust everything if you have to. But trust the hours. Haven’t they carried you everywhere, up to now? Personal events will become interesting again. Hair will become interesting. Pain will become interesting. Buds that open out of season will become interesting. Second-hand gloves will become lovely again; their memories are what give them the need for other hands. The desolation of lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness carved out of such tiny beings as we are asks to be filled; the need for the new love is faithfulness to the old. Wait. Don’t go too early. You’re tired. But everyone’s tired. But no one is tired enough. Only wait a little and listen: music of hair, music of pain, music of looms weaving our love again. Be there to hear it, it will be the only time, most of all to hear your whole existence, rehearsed by the sorrows, play itself into total exhaustion.

Echoing Light  - W.S. Merwin

When I was beginning to read I imagined that bridges had something to do with birds and with what seemed to be cages but I knew that they were not cages it must have been autumn with the dusty light flashing from the streetcar wires and those orange places on fire in the pictures and now indeed it is autumn the clear days not far from the sea with a small wind nosing over dry grass that yesterday was green the empty corn standing trembling and a down of ghost flowers veiling the ignored fields and everywhere the colors I cannot take my eyes from all of them red even the wide streams red it is the season of migrants flying at night feeling the turning earth beneath them and I woke in the city hearing the call notes of the plover then again and again before I slept and here far downriver flocking together echoing close to the shore the longest bridges have opened their slender wings

blue is the warmest color.  Praia Vermelha, Rio de Janeiro, 2017

insta: martivilar

Cyanotypes, Emilio Hernández Martín

Mahmoud Darwish, from A State of Siege (2002), tr. from the Arabic by Fady Joudah

reading an npr article about a man’s husband who wanted to be buried in a public cemetery. not at all crying (<- lying!)

jimmy woo in amsterdam, netherlands in new bar + club design - bethan ryder (2005)