Double Moon

Robert Motherwell, Blue Elegy, 1987, National Gallery of Austrailia

Robert Motherwell, Blue Elegy, 1987, National Gallery of Australia

Blue Moon Friday. That’s right, a second chance this month to see that spacious pearl rise and reflect more glowing light to love by. Due to the calendar we’ve concocted and the actual lunar cycle, we get a bonus full moon today –  happens every 2.7 years. Ok, so that’s mildly interesting. A good time to concoct a love potion perhaps.

This month’s two-moon tango reminds me of Blue Elegy by Robert Motherwell. I did a double take on this one. Only a pair of marks here, not an eye pleasing threesome. It’s repeated but not repetition. Just tandem. Why?

Powerful strokes that were originally the work of chance and subconscious, are now Motherwell’s signature mark. The strong downward stroke with the affixed oval shape (art critics say rectilinear and ovoid, ugh). He did about two hundred paintings in his Elegies series, mainly this same repeating mark in graphic black. A protest against the atrocities of the Spanish Civil war, as Picasso did in Guernica. See one here. http://www.guggenheim.org/new-york/collections/collection-online/show-full/piece/?object=84.3223&search=&page=&f=Title

But this Elegy’s in blue. Takes on celestial feel instead of the dark, stagnated fury of the black ones. The stroke now softened by sky blue and gilded by a gold top line. This mark usually told of senseless death and war’s vengeful repeating.  Now, it speaks of something more heavenly and I think more hopeful. The gift of second chance.

You struggle to say something important but you can’t quite get it out. You try again. You do something brilliant and then try it again –  fear of failure be damned. You attempted life, but it didn’t quite work out. You look up to see that second beautiful chance you thought you’d never get.

Blue moon shining.


Dog days

Gaylen Hansen, Dog and Magpie, 1989

Gaylen Hansen, Dog and Magpie, 1989

Magpie: Cawk it’s hot! Even my feathers are sweating. I’m just going to keel over and die from this heat.

Dog: Yawn. It’s the dog days of summer.

Magpie: That’s quite odd. The dog days? I think not.

Dog: Scratch. Scratch.  Yep.

Magpie: Hmm. .  . (stands on one leg) Now that you mention it, I recall they are more commonly called the “Magpie days of summer.” Yes. Yes. I know I’ve heard that somewhere before. . .oh, my friend cawed to me about it last week. (Whew! I could fry an egg on my beak it’s so hot!) Of course, it’s the Magpie days.

Dog: Actually, I’m right on this. Definitely the dog days.

Magpie: Oh doggone it (stamps claw)– is everything always about you?

Dog: Hey, I didn’t have anything to do with it – it’s an ancient Greek thing. Blamed the “dog star” Sirius. Got too close to the sun. Didn’t you see my post about Roman dog sacrifice on my FB page?

Magpie: No, FB’ s just annoying. Seriously, you have a star and a whole couple months of summer named after you? (cocks head) For all your lying around and tired panting? Lazybone’s like. Really there’s no reason to name something after a bunch of drooling, lazy good-for-nothing’s. I’m calling them the #Magpie day’s of summer. Tweeting it right now. Magpies bring #good luck. What do dogs bring? Only #fleas.

Dog: And dead birds.

Magpie: Gasp. Cawk! Flutter.

Dog: It’s the dog days Magpie, just google it.

Magpie: Nope, don’t like google watching me. If you ask me, the “Magpie days of summer” sounds better.

Dog: Lacks alliteration. (Stands to leave)  It’s too damn hot to squawk about it.

Magpie: Certainly is not. (ruffles feathers, cranes neck high) Really this is too unfair. . .


Banksy ballyhoo

Banksy, Going for Mould, 2012, undisclosed location

Banksy, Going for Mould, 2012, undisclosed location

Let me introduce you to Banksy, hooded British street artist turned red-haute art star. The museum crowd lauds him; the Tate Modern hearts him. Art collectors around the world shell out the big bucks for his indoor work, but his graffiti (outdoor murals), recently set the Olympic Committee’s and British Transportation Police’s teeth to grinding.

According to British law, it’s a punishable offense to use the Olympic rings if you are not a sponsor. The Olympic committee aggressively protects their brand. For months they’ve harassed British small business owners and artists. The Olympic Cafe is now the Lympic Cafe. For a time, only McDonald’s (major sponsor) was permitted to serve fries in the Olympic village. Using the words, “summer”, “gold”, “silver” or “bronze”  in your advertising will court cease-and-desist letters or $30,000 fines from the street roaming brand police. The Olympic committee even hand slapped Kate Middleton’s sister for “copyright infringing” website content. (No time to touch on the story of the sanctioned knitters or the store owner threatened suit for configuring hula hoops like Olympic rings.) Now they want to white wash Banksy.

This mural sports no Olympic symbols. Instead, on-site structures like the decrepit chain-link fence and the molding mattress add clever satire to the story of the unnamed-games pole vaulter.

Its location is secret.

Does this image honor athletes from small underfunded countries who don’t have the resources to compete with wealthy nations? With similar talent but no funding, they have little chance to metal (81 countries attending the Summer Olympics have never metalled). Or is it a dig at the Olympic committee itself? Way to high and mighty, headed for a rotten-mattress face plant. Scoring the lowest mark in court of public opinion.

For more gritty details

http://www.globalpost.com/dispatches/globalpost-blogs/world-at-play/banskys-olympic-artwork-jeopardy-ioc-continues-crackdown


Sunday, Sunday

Daphne Confar, George thought today was Sunday, 2012 courtesy William Scott Gallery

Daphne Confar, George thought today was Sunday, 2012 courtesy William Scott Gallery

George thought today was a Sunday.

Sunday’s were his favorite days after all. He waited in the lobby for the church van to come pick him up and deliver him to Sunday School. Free coffee and donuts. The ladies smiled at his jokes.

He could belt out the hymns. A mighty fortress is our God. . . Fractured light from stained glass windows colored his hands holding the hymnal open. He could’ve sung in the choir behind that preacher if he’d put his mind to it. People complimented his strong singing voice.

He enjoyed meet-and-greet too, liked greeting all the visitors.  Sometimes he felt odd when some seemed familiar and knew his name before he introduced himself. That lost little fog would soon lift as they got to talking.

He turned to his right, grinned and shook the hand of the attractive lady just seated. Her eyes took him in, searching, tender. Her soft hand and the smell of rosemary and mint.

“I’m your wife George,” she said.

“But I’m not married.”  George felt he was standing on a ladder missing the last rung. Wobbled in a low-grade panic of  toes reaching for the last step, foot paddling the air, searching.

“I gave you that gold tie for our 40th wedding anniversary. It looks so handsome with your navy blazer.”

He peered out the window, following the light posts down the street. He didn’t see the van. George started to think today was not a Sunday. He rocked the squeaky pink recliner for several minutes longer. The van did not come. An orderly in sneakers turned the corner.

“George, it’s Thursday. You can wait in the lobby every morning but you have to count six days between Sundays. Now let’s go get you changed.”