"Permanently" by Kenneth Koch One day the Nouns were clustered in the street. An Adjective walked by, with her dark beauty. The Nouns were struck, moved, changed. The next day a Verb drove up, and created the Sentence. Each Sentence says one thing—for example, “Although it was a dark rainy day when the Adjective walked by, I shall remember the pure and sweet expression on her face until the day I perish from the green, effective earth." Or, “Will you please close the window, Andrew?” Or, for example, “Thank you, the pink pot of flowers on the window sill has changed color recently to a light yellow, due to the heat from the boiler factory which exists nearby.” In the springtime the Sentences and the Nouns lay silently on the grass. A lonely Conjunction here and there would call, “And! But!” But the Adjective did not emerge. As the Adjective is lost in the sentence, So I am lost in your eyes, ears, nose, and throat— You have enchanted me with a single kiss Which can never be undone Until the destruction of language
As a child we experience the world in a completely different way from adults. Our senses are attuned to even the slightest external stimuli. Our unbound, fertile imagination whirls and creates wondrous links and conceptions that exceed all logic and "common sense". Images and sounds are conceived like fractals that give birth to new infinite designs. For, at that young age, there are no boundaries and so many empty spaces to fill in. Later on in life, these empty spaces will become casts regulating behavior and understanding. A child can very easily relate to a puppet or a marionette because the puppet world is an airy miniature of the real world. The child, dwarfed in it's everyday existence by all things grownup, suddenly sees something small and familiar. Something that it can relate to by intuition alone, effortlessly. Imagination takes over and the child believes. It's whole being is in fact absorbed into the characters, into the story. In our adult life we sometimes get flashbacks of our childhood. But it's always a fleeting moment when you loose control and dive into the rabbit hole like Alice. Just a spark and it's gone. The shadow of a memory long forgotten. But in that tiny moment there is something magical in what we experience. A letting go of all the templates, the iron casts and the frames. A re-emergence of that innocence. The infinite contentment of re-living that instant of childish insouciance. These thoughts came to my mind when I first saw the puppet theatre scene in Krzysztof Kieslowski's " La double vie de Véronique" in 1991. The music, by Zbigniew Preisner, makes this magical scene a cinematic moment you will always remember. A shortcut to the rabbit hole.
The walls of Athens are canvasses on which artistic freedom of expression runs wild. No need for galleries, no patrons, no intermediaries. Just pictures at an exhibition.
1. The drawing style and technique of this artist distinguishes his/her work from traditional graffiti. Drawn on large pieces of paper and then plastered on the wall, his/her themes mainly include beauty, innocence and hope in the face of ugliness, adversity and racism.
2. The following artist uses a mixed technique of stensil and graffiti to create a pastel-like soft texture. Great use of light and shadow and attention to detail. Theme: Wind and flying hats.
3. An imaginary world of monsters and strange creatures lurk in every corner of Athens. Some of these would make H.P.Lovecraft proud while others seem to pop out of comic books.
And here is finally the most ferocious monster of them all. A perfect specimen of the "politician" creature. It sports a long Pinocchio nose and carries a knife and fork. It has sharp teeth and greedy eyes. Beware of it's many promises...
Athens, Greece. Summer 2013. In the midst of a suffocating crisis, when everything is falling apart and people are sucked into swirling black holes of depression; when most of us are transformed into casual observers of the deadening of our own senses and emotions; when our backs are against the wall... We, in Athens, we turn and look at that wall. And we get a grip on ourselves, we regain our footing, we loose the numbness. For the walls of Athens are alive. They are vibrating. They carry the thoughts and feelings of young artists who refuse to cower in front of that giant crushing wave that hovers above. They just surf effortlessly through it, cutting it in half with an image, a message, a thought. Take the graffiti artist who signs WD for example. Irony is the name of his game. All you need is Joke... You could take it literarily of course. But then you hear from the television..."- The government may be optimistic about a recovery just around the corner...". Shiny happy people and politicians kissing babies all over again... It's all a joke. The joke is on us. And in the end we live by this joke. Inspired by the Joker character in the Batman comic book, WD "defaces" his own work sending a message that ultimately aims to make you think and make your own mind about the state of things, about ways to turn the tables and react. Take laughter out of slaughter. What a Killing Joke indeed...
"... A book is essentially not a talked thing, but a
written thing; and written, not with the view of mere communication, but of
permanence. The book of talk is printed only because its author cannot speak to
thousands of people at once; if he could, he would—the volume is mere
multiplication of his voice. You cannot talk to your friend in India, if you
could, you would; you write instead: that is mere conveyance of voice. But a
book is written, not to multiply the voice merely, not to carry it merely, but
to perpetuate it. The author has something to say which he perceives to be true
and useful, or helpfully beautiful. So far as he knows, no one has yet said it;
so far as he knows, no one else can say it. He is bound to say it, clearly and
melodiously if he may; clearly, at all events. In the sum of his life he finds
this to be the thing, or group of things, manifest to him;—this, the piece of
true knowledge, or sight, which his share of sunshine and earth has permitted
him to seize. He would fain set it down forever; engrave it on rock, if he
could; saying, “This is the best of me; for the rest, I ate, and drank, and
slept, loved, and hated, like another; my life was as the vapor and is not; but
this I saw and knew: this, if anything of mine, is worth your memory.” That is
his “writing”; it is, in his small human way, and with whatever degree of true
inspiration is in him, his inscription, or scripture. That is a “Book.”..." Extracted from "Sesame and Lilies. Lecture I.—Sesame: Of Kings’ Treasuries" by John Ruskin.
