The power went out this afternoon for no apparent reason. We worked for a while in the gloom of the cool basement, numbering pieces to relate to our inventory list for our upcoming exhibit at Douglas Dawson Gallery. Eventually I brought the pieces outside where the light was better and the fragrance of honeysuckle was incredible. It got humid but I was so taken by the contrast of our wood fired pieces against the basalt rock of our entrance wall that it made it all worth it. As the sun got low the depth of greens vibrated against an elegant blue sky and the sliver of a new moon visible in the still daylight sky.
"When I speak of poetry I am not thinking of it as a genre. Poetry is an awareness of the world, a particular way of relating to reality. So poetry becomes a philosophy to guide a man throughout his life.... [With poetry, one] is capable of going beyond the limitations of coherent logic, and conveying the deep complexity and truth of the impalpable connections and hidden phenomena of life."
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Andrei Tarkovsky, Sculpting in Time, translated by Kitty Hunter-Blair (1987)
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Andrei Tarkovsky, Sculpting in Time, translated by Kitty Hunter-Blair (1987)
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