VANITAS : a journal of poetry, writings by artists, criticism, and essays. During its decade of intervention in the public realm, VANITAS came out quasi-annually, serving as a forum for international voices with an emphasis on coming to grips with current world situations. Each issue contained writings by artists whose primary modes were non-literary and featured the work of a visual artist. [www.vanitasmagazine.net]
For the seventh and final issue of VANITAS, we examine the idea of The Self. The work featured in issue 7 tests just how far the self can be stretched, partially as an exercise in self-expression, partially in search of what used to be called experience. Self, not so much in personae as in faces, in the sense the Mods used the term — referring to someone with style, perhaps within a culture of style, but an individual expression of that culture, or perhaps someone who can seemingly invent her own style, just standing there.
This issue features new work by Bruce Andrews, Mary Jo Bang, Anselm Berrigan, Steve Dickison, Danielle Dutton, Tonya Foster, John Godfrey, Robert Hunter, Paolo Javier, Ann Lauterbach, Kimberly Lyons, Dan Machlin, Gerard Malanga, Judith Malina, Filip Marinovich, Harry Matthews, Michael McClure, Anna Moschovakis, Stephen Motika, Jennifer Moxley, Michael Palmer, Aram Saroyan, Lewis Warsh, and many more. Featuring artwork by Diana Michener, Carol Szymanski, Gerard Malanga, Rudy Burckhardt, and Vivien Bittencourt.
5 comments:
That's right. That's where this happens and that's what this shows. I would like to see this this on classrooms walls from Pre-K through 12. After that I would like to know that professors displayed it in their homes.
Curtis,
We once spent a summer and an autumn up in the Front Range of the Rockies on a spot aptly called Hurricane Hill, at c. 9,000 feet; there were lakes like these scattered through the woods; it was mystically beautiful; also at times pretty scary (hunters having target practice around those old mine shafts); and then came winter, and...
Now that the weekend's over, I came back to this poem and these images and colors for a little peace, which is hard to find. As you say, there's always target practice and winter to contend with. (Shortly after we moved to Tuxedo Park, a small sylvan enclave where hunting is forbidden, we arrived home to find a bullet hole in our house that had been left there by deer hunters; that was unsettling.) I'm unsure what this week promises, but I'll always have this to return to. (And summer is supposedly on the way.)
Curtis,
In that vicinity in that period, the big hunting time was just after Broncos games. When the pickup trucks with loaded rifle racks and cases of Coors in the back showed up, it was time to duck and cover.
A response I sent to you last comment strangely appeared at first and then disappeared. That's how I feel sometimes. I was saying (as they say), I can relate. In Tuxedo Park, where no hunting is permitted, we've found a bullet lodged in our house and a window shattered by a stray shot. The report of gunfire during hunting season is a regular, awful sound. Sometimes, because we're fairly close to West Point, we hear all-day exercises, which sound like loud, not too distant thunder (the difference being that thunder and the weapons they use are pretty easily distinguishable). Because of Old Mine Road (Caribou), I spent some very enjoyable time last night with the poems in Paradise Resisted. It is a marvelous collection.
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