Archive for the ‘Edward Hirsch’ Tag

Desert Chicory And Bees   Leave a comment

Desert Chicory-72-2Desert Chicory and Bees — Images by kenne

Desert Chicory & Bees-72

These first days of summer are like the pail
of blueberries that we poured out together
into the iron sink in the basement—

a brightness unleashed and spilling over
with tiny bell-shaped flowers, the windows
opened and the shrubs overwhelming the house

like the memory of a forgotten country, Nature,
with its wandering migrations and hanging borders,
its thickets, woodlands, bee-humming meadows . . .

— from “Summer Surprised Us” by Edward Hirsh

Welcome Home   1 comment

Welcome-72-2.jpgWelcome Home– Image by kenne

And as I turn home where
I know you are already awake,
Wandering slowly through the house
Searching for me, I can suddenly
Hear my own footsteps crunching
The simple astonishing news
That we are here,
Yes, we are still here.

— from “Dawn Walk” by Edward Hirsch

 

Blackett’s Ridge Trail Sunset — Festive andFree-Floating   Leave a comment

Blacketts Sunset-Edit-2-72-2Blackett’s Ridge Trail Sunset — Photo-Artistry by kenne

It’s the way we move toward each other
at night, tired, giddy after a day together
or a day apart, flush with newborn plans

for a holiday from daily life, in reality.
We are festive and free-floating. We are
poured out like a bucket of wild berries.

— from “Summer Surprised Us” by Edward Hirsch

Mariposa Lilies   3 comments

Mariposa Lily-72Mariposa Lilies (Santa Catalina Mountains) — Image by kenne

Life has to have the plenitude of art.

— Edward Hirsch

The Truth   Leave a comment

Rose Lake July 2013Rose Lake, Santa Catalina Mountains — Digital Art by kenne

One imagines him as a prodigious morning walker
And a lonely metaphysician pausing in the park,

A rose rabbi, a sturdy man on a wide path
Dreaming of a sky washed clean by doubt.

One pictures him under the umbrella
Pines and buttonwoods on the way to work,

Imagination’s largest thinker conjuring up
Songs of human radiance twanging in the mist.

One thinks of him by the lake in a rain:
Mirrors on mirrors mirroring the emptiness.

— from At the Grave of Wallace Stevens by Edward Hirsch

 

 

“counter–love, original response”   Leave a comment

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“Live Covering Death” — Image by kenne

Now that I have more time to search for a source of inspiration larger than or outside of myself, I desire to generate creative expression my combining poetry and visual art. It is not always easy to tease out the imagination in words or a visual image, but when combined one may be able to create analogous worlds. Edward Hirsch, in Transforming Vision stated that this process is similar to what Robert Frost called “counter-love, original response.”

The Most of It

He thought he kept the universe alone;
For all the voice in answer he could wake
Was but the mocking echo of his own
From some tree–hidden cliff across the lake.
Some morning from the boulder–broken beach
He would cry out on life, that what it wants
Is not its own love back in copy speech,
But counter–love, original response.
And nothing ever came of what he cried
Unless it was the embodiment that crashed
In the cliff’s talus on the other side,
And then in the far distant water splashed,
But after a time allowed for it to swim,
Instead of proving human when it neared
And someone else additional to him,
As a great buck it powerfully appeared,
Pushing the crumpled water up ahead,
And landed pouring like a waterfall,
And stumbled through the rocks with horny tread,
And forced the underbrush—and that was all.

— Robert Frost

PS: I find inspiration in visual images, whether my own or that of others, from which I try to blend visual and verbal eloquence. One of the best examples of inspiration from visual art is Wallace Stevens “Man with the Blue Guitar” on Pablo Picasso’s “The Old Guitarist.”

 

It’s A Beautiful Day Painting   1 comment

Sunset (1 of 1) art II blog“It’s A Beautiful Day” — Computer Painting by kenne

“I woke up to voices speaking of love,
always leading me forward, leading me on,
taking me from the bedroom to the study
in the early morning or late at night,
emanations that seemed to come from night
itself, from leaves opening in the study
where many lives flow together as one
life, my own, these ventures in love.”

— Edward Hirsch

“We choose love over fear.”

Answers Lie Beyond The Open Windows And Doors   Leave a comment

Virginia City Buildings (1 of 1) grunge art II blog Windows And Doors — Grunge Art by kenne

(The Fortune-teller’s Words to the Poet)

The way downward is easy from Avernus.
Black Dis’s door stands open night and day.
But to retrace your steps to heaven’s air,

There is the trouble, there is the hard task.
And now he is wandering through a labyrinth
Of dead-end corridors and empty tunnels,

Broken mirrors and smudged signs pointing
Nowhere, voices echoing like footsteps
In the iron hallways. Listen to me:

If you want to become more than a shadow
Among shadows, you must carry back the memory
Of your father disintegrating in your arms,

You must bring words that will console others,
You must believe in stairs leading upward
To summer’s resplendent, celestial blues.”

— from the poem “Sortes Virgilianae” by Edward Hirsch

Capturing The Moment — 12/13/14 Sunset Images   4 comments

Sunset (1 of 1)_art 12-13-14Sunset, 12/13/14 — Computer Painting by kenne

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Sunset (1 of 1)-10 blog12/13/14 Sunset Images by kenne

At this hour the soul is like a yellow wing

slipping through the treetops, a little ecstatic

cloud hovering over the sidewalks, calling out

to the approaching night, Amaze me, amaze me,” . . .

— from “Poor Angels” by Edward Hirsch

Morning Passion   2 comments

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAMorning Passion — Images by kenne

MORNING PASSION

Lorca’s mode of thought
The demon and the angel
Living the duende.

— kenne

Capturing The Moment — Stagecoach Driver   3 comments

Tombstone & Bisbee May 18 2012Stagecoach Driver — Image by kenne

Westward the wagon jolted
along the ruts and trails,
along the interminable course of empire,
while the sun took a long time going down in the fields.

The earth was slow and hard
and there was nothing to see but land:
it was not a country at all
but the sketch of a country,
the material out of which countries are made.

— from “Nebraska, 1883,” by Edward Hirsch

The dust of travel still clings to his body,
and particles of sunlight fade on his skin.
What has happened to the eternal presences?

— from “The Renunciation of Poetry,” by Edward Hirsch

 

Some Go Hunting For Light   6 comments

Lighthouse 2 blogEdward Hopper’s Lighthouse Village, Cape Elizabeth (1929)

Lighthouse 4 Hopper photo blog

Maine house, 1998, by Michael H. Coles

There is so much I love about the art of Edward Hopper, which is why I continue to turn to his work — so on the pulse of us as Americans. I have never been to Maine, let through painting like Lighthouse Village, I feel as if I grow up in Cape Elizabeth — his inspiration allows my imagination to capture reality.

“I once told Hopper that he shows us who we are,” said poet William Carlos Williams. “He’d have no part of my enthusiasm, or extravagance. ‘Yes, I try,’ he said–and then he spoke about ‘light,” how hard he looks for it. He told me to go ‘hunting’ for light, and I liked hearing him use that word–seeing his face get lit up as he spoke!” (“Seeking Maine’s Light,” DoubleTake, Winter 2000)

The Michael H. Coles photograph of a Maine house taken not far from where Hopper painted Lighthouse Village illustrates how Hopper was able to capture the light.

kenne

Edward Hopper, Self-portrait

Edward Hopper, Self-portrait

Edward Hopper and the House by the Railroad (1925)

by Edward Hirsch

Out here in the exact middle of the day,
This strange, gawky house has the expression
Of someone being stared at, someone holding
His breath underwater, hushed and expectant;

This house is ashamed of itself, ashamed
Of its fantastic mansard rooftop
And its pseudo-Gothic porch, ashamed
of its shoulders and large, awkward hands.

The_House_by_the_Railroad_by_Edward_Hopper_1925

The House by the Railroad by Edward Hopper 1925

But the man behind the easel is relentless.
He is as brutal as sunlight, and believes
The house must have done something horrible
To the people who once lived here

Because now it is so desperately empty,
It must have done something to the sky
Because the sky, too, is utterly vacant
And devoid of meaning. There are no

Trees or shrubs anywhere–the house
Must have done something against the earth.
All that is present is a single pair of tracks
Straightening into the distance. No trains pass.

Now the stranger returns to this place daily
Until the house begins to suspect
That the man, too, is desolate, desolate
And even ashamed. Soon the house starts

To stare frankly at the man. And somehow
The empty white canvas slowly takes on
The expression of someone who is unnerved,
Someone holding his breath underwater.

And then one day the man simply disappears.
He is a last afternoon shadow moving
Across the tracks, making its way
Through the vast, darkening fields.

This man will paint other abandoned mansions,
And faded cafeteria windows, and poorly lettered
Storefronts on the edges of small towns.
Always they will have this same expression,

The utterly naked look of someone
Being stared at, someone American and gawky.
Someone who is about to be left alone
Again, and can no longer stand it.

Angel In Vortex   Leave a comment

Abstract I 6-11-09 II Angel In The Vortex blogAngel In Vortex — Image by kenne

“The angel comes with windy upward drafts, with transcendental longings; the duende arrives with demonic undertow, with downdrafts of emotion. Both are fundamental inner disturbances, fissures of being, ways of putting the self at risk, liberating figures. They are extremities of human imagination. There is a place on the endangered shoreline where they seem to meet, and where they may be indistinguishable from each other.

. . . Rilke wrote: ‘Works of art always spring from those who have faced the danger, gone to the very end of an experience, to the point beyond which no human being can go. The further one dares to go, the more decent, the more personal, the more unique a life becomes.”‘

 — from The Demon and The Angel; Searching for the Source of Artistic Inspiration, by Edward Hirsch

“Man’s ability to measure the spiritual, earthbound, and cosmic, set against his physical helplessness is his fundamental tragedy. The tragedy of spirituality.”

— Paul Klee

Between Light And Shadows — Making Something Visible That Might Otherwise Be Invisible   6 comments

"Morning Sun" Painting by Edward Hopper

“Morning Sun” Painting by Edward Hopper

Life and art are defined by what lies between light and shadows. In Holland Cotter’s April 30, 2007 article in the New York Times, he wrote “A certain slant of light was Edward Hopper’s thing. And he made it our thing, hard-wired it into our American brains:”

Every since seeing Edward Hopper’s, “Nighthawks” at the Art Institute of Chicago, as a young man, I have been seduced by his work — not because he hard-wired my brain, but because of the human ability to distinguish between an object and its background. It is the contrast between light and shadows that catches the eye, which is why Hopper’s work is so seductive — it the essence of the “Hopper Effect: the impression of everyday life touched with secular sanctity. “

Poet L.E. Sissman was so captivated by Hopper’s work that he wrote “American Light: A Hopper Retrospective”. Written in five parts, the first part subtitled, “Hopper”.

A man, a plan, a spandrel touched with fire,
A morning-tinted cornice, a lit spire,
A clapboard gable beetled with the brow-
Shadows of lintels, a glazed vacancy
In shut-up shopfronts, an ineffably
Beautiful emptiness of sunlight in
Bare rooms of which he was the sole inhabitant:
The morning and the evening of his life
Rotated, a lone sun, about the plinth
On which he stood in granite, limned by light
That lasted on day long and then went out.

Edward Hopper's "Nighthawks"

Edward Hopper’s “Nighthawks”

Yes, it’s all about what falls between the light and the shadows, as Joyce Carol Oats writes on Hopper’s “Nighthawks” in Transforming Vision – Writers on Art:

The three men are fully clothed, long sleeves,
even hats, though it’s indoors, and brightly lit,
and there’s a women. The woman is wearing
a short-sleeved red dress cut to expose her arms,
a curve of her creamy chest; she’s contemplating
a cigarette in her right hand, thinking that
her companion has finally left his wife but
can she trust him? Her heavy-lidded eyes,
pouty lipsticked mouth, she has the redhead’s
true pallor like skill milk, damned good-looking
and she guesses she knows it but what exactly
has it gotten her so far, and where? — he’ll start
to feel guilty in a few days, she knows
the signs, an actual smell, sweaty, rancid, like
dirty socks; he’ll slip away to make telephone calls. . .

“. . . People the vacuum with American light.” — the last line in T.S. Sissman’s poem on Edward Hopper.

“There is a fifth dimension beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, and it lies between the pit of man’s fears and the summit of his knowledge…” — Rod Serling, Twilight Zone.

I feel that in the images I capture, I’m always trying to capture that middle ground between light and shadow — maybe Edward Hopper was too.

Some may think of the space between light and the shadow as the twilight zone, I think of it as what the Spanish poet Federico García Lorca called duende, which as Edward Hirsch has put it, “. . . it makes something visible that might otherwise be invisible, that has been swimming under the surface all along.”

kenne

Desert Fall ShadowsBetween Light and Shadows — Image by kenne

 

Edward Hirsch — “Green Couch”   1 comment

Ed Hirsch & Yard Photos  9008-collage blogEdward Hirsch Reading at Lone Star College – Montgomery, Writers In Performance Series (April, 2010) — Images and Video by kenne


GREEN COUCH

by Edward Hirsch

That was the year I left behind my marriage
of twenty-eight years, my faded philosophy books, and
the green couch I had inherited from my grandmother.

After she died, I drove it across the country
and carried it up three flights of crooked stairs
to a tiny apartment in west Philadelphia,

Ed Hirsch & Yard Photos  9007 sq blogand stored it in my in-laws’ basement in Bethesda,
and left it to molder in our garage in Detroit
(my friend Dennis rescued it for his living room),

and moved it to a second-floor study in Houston
and a fifth-floor apartment on the Upper West Side
where it will now be carted away to the dump.

All my difficult reading took place on that couch,
which was turning back into the color of nature
while I grappled with ethics and the law,

the reasons for Reason, Being and Nothingness,
existential dread and the death of God
(I’m still angry at Him for no longer existing).

That was the year that I finally mourned
for my two dead fathers, my sole marriage,
and the electric green couch of my past.

Darlings, I remember everything.
But now I try to speak the language of
the unconscious and study earth for secrets.

I go back and forth to work.
I walk in the botanical gardens on weekends
and take a narrow green path to the clearing.

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