This gallery contains 1 photo.
Paintings (2012)
Gallery
Douglas Florian’s “Dawn Thieves” at BravinLee Programs
“Dawn Thieves” is an exhibition of recent paintings by Douglas Florian, on view at BravinLee Programs until May 5.
The variety of marks that comprise these remarkable paintings—brushstrokes wide and narrow, sometimes multicolored, sometimes translucent, scrapes, and divots—suggest marks made in preparation for other paintings, collected and beautifully arranged on rough-hewn plywood panels. In scale and facture, some of Florian’s works bear resemblance to tantric painting. In other cases, they could be parts of hand-painted, weather-beaten signs from every corner of the world. Occasionally floating or jammed in the margins between other marks can be found alphabetic characters, usually Hebrew or Roman. In one painting, letters appear to read as “CCCP” and “USSA” [?]. Perhaps the marks in these paintings are the marks that weren’t made: alternate marks recovered from a parallel universe.
The language that accompanies the paintings threatens to hedge them into an attempt at wit that they need not be compelled to make. Sometimes, the titles give too much. The painting No Way, for example, looks like a giant, blue “N” and “O” only after we read the title, and then indefatigably so. Upon reading the title of the painting The field hath eye, the wood hath eyes, we are likewise forced to see an eye-catching pattern of bright red and grey dots on a field of green as eyes themselves. Finally Florian offers an artist’s statement of sorts in the form of a rhyming poem. This is fine, but it doesn’t add anything new to our experience. It simply affirms what I already suspected: he’s having fun.
The marvels and idiosyncrasies of these paintings—their otherworldliness and excess language—are given greater dimension when we consider that Douglas Florian has also been a children’s book author, illustrator, and poet for over thirty years. You can read his blog dedicated to his craft here: http://floriancafe.blogspot.com/
Last Year’s Poetry: Entry Six (Round 4): Gamer
GAMER
KNOWLEDGE IS A THORN IMPOSSIBLE TO REMOVE. LOGIC IS LOST AND WE ARE ANIMALS.
INSTINCTS BUILD THE MAP, IF WE CAN CALL IT THAT, BUT LESS A MAP THAN A BUNDLE OF TRAILS THROUGH COUNTLESS AND SPECTRAL HOLLOWS AS MYRIAD NEURONS ACROSS SYNAPSES THAT BEAR THE RECURSIVE IRRITATION OF KNOWLEDGE.
THE SCOUT IN THE WILDERNESS BOBS HER HEAD AS A SWIMMER DOES AS SHE CROUCHES ALMOST CRAWLING THROUGH THE BRIARS. THE CANOPY HIDES HER MOVEMENT FROM THE PRYING EYES OF JEALOUS GODS IN HUSHLESS HELICOPTERS.
IF YOU BELIEVED THAT YOU COULD WIN AT LOSING, YOU WOULD LOSE AT NOTHING. NOW DON’T PRETEND YOU DIDN’T KNOW THAT
Last Year’s Poetry: Entry Five (Round 3): Until We Meet Again
The second part of this poem (beginning with a parenthesis) is lifted directly from the poem “St. Simeon Stylites” by Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
UNTIL WE MEET AGAIN
HANDS GROW TILL THEY GRASP FULLY THE TRUNK OF A GROWN MAPLE TREE AND RUBBING IT UP AND DOWN TILL BLISTERS TURN TO CALLUSES AND THE BRANCHES ARE ALL GROUND TO NEGLIGIBLE AND BARELY TURN THE NERVES ON
YOUR WILD CHERRY TASTES LIKE SOUR GRAPES AND I REALIZE THAT MY RUBBING WAS CLIMBING TO THE TIP OF THE SWITCH AS A STYLITE STUCK AT THE TOP—TAKE IT, TENNY: “A sign betwixt the meadow and the cloud, patient on this pillar I have borne rain, wind, frost, heat, hail, damp, and sleet, and snow; and I had hoped that ere this period closed thou wouldst have caught me up into thy rest, denying not these weather-beaten limbs the meed of saints
Misfortoons
Gallery
This gallery contains 4 photos.
This is an ongoing series of obtuse political cartoons, each depicting a moment-to-moment transition. They are shown here in order of completion.
Laundry Drawings
Gallery
This gallery contains 5 photos.
The laundromat is the architecture of boredom. Each washer and dryer is a timepiece. Each cyclical movement has the potential to continue or end our captivity. To stick or unstick. To become stuck or unstuck.
Last Year’s Poetry: Entry Four (Round 2): Bit
BIT
MY TONGUE IS A RACEHORSE TOO YOUNG TO BE GLUE TOO OLD TO BE NEW TO SPEAK TO YOU IT IS TOO TIED—AROUND THE BACK OF MY BRAIN ARE WRAPPED THE REINS TO THE BRIDLE TO THE BIT
Last Year’s Poetry: Entry Three (Round 1): The Road from Golgotha
The following group of poems I dubbed “rounds.” I am hoping that after reading a few, the reason will become apparent. Around that time, I was reading Samuel Delany’s knotty novel, Dhalgren.
The formatting is not completely resolved, but ideally the format of the poems would be tailored to their appearance on a printed page.
THE ROAD FROM GOLGOTHA
THOSE FEET HE DRAGGED KICKING AND SCREAMING THROUGH THE MUD BY THE HAIR PROCLAIMING “I AM NOT A CROOK. THE BRITISH ARE COMING. I AM THE SON OF MAN. GET UP—SHAKE YER ASS. LET ME SEE YOU MOVE
Last Year’s Poetry: Entry Two: Broken Record
Broken Record
I have been entering
The stupid phrases that I think of,
To see how original I am,
Or to find others who share my sentiments.“Conceptual Art is castration”
“So-and-So sucks”
I say. I type. To no avail.
The bilge is full before I sail.
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Last Year’s Poetry: Entry One: Diametrical Progression
Last year’s poetry was the product of deep depression, fueled by joblessness and boredom in Queens, NY. Writing these poems wasn’t so much cathartic as it was like trying to put out the fire in my head with a eyedropper. I know that’s kind of a cliché about writers and writing, but lo and behold… I’ll post one each day until I run out (shouldn’t take long). Here’s the first:
Diametrical Progression
1. H – C
Hot and Cold2. H – C
Helado y Caliente3. C – H
Caliente y Helado4. C – H
Cold and Hot