Linen

What I guessed at.  

What I guessed when I loafed on the grass.  

What I guessed while I lay alone in my bed

and again as I walked the beach 

under the paling stars of the morning.  

Space and Time. 

Walt Whitman

that story was your life

 I sometimes imagine my whole life as though I was a needle leaving a trail of thread that sewed together the world as I went by, quilting it altogether in some way that matters even though it can hardly be traced.  As though walking was sewing and sewing was telling a story and that story was your life.  

Rebecca Solnit. (Abbreviated slightly) 

Processing Mortality

David Hockney’s work is a manifestation of unconditional love for the universe.  

“Don’t you see?  In my pictures, I take all the trauma out.  That’s my form of resistance.  “ David Hockney 
 

The golden notebook

 6 am

We are both up.  He has started the coffee and is unloading the dishwasher.  Today - I’m finishing the Beauty sleeve.  Because I’m up early, I think I can do 30 minutes of journal transcribing.  I’m working on the journal I kept the summer I turned 40.  The Golden Notebook.    

the monstera

There is a lot of demand to perform biographical confessions as a means to authenticity.  Yet these expectations come with moral obligation to provide solution for world problems. Artists aren't given room to think about the world in complex ways outside of their autobiography.  

Artists tell stories about what is happening in the world we inhabit.  The story does not have to be exclusively about us.  We can be witnesses.  

Abbas Akhaven - 2026 Venice Biennale representative from Canada

Sunshine in sky

The curator wrote me an email and asked for a meeting on April 29 at 10 am. I haven’t answered yet, but am very stoked about this 2027 project. 

 

Spring Song

Everything suddenly golden still, the sun a hovering golden bird.  Nothing moves.  Soft clouds wait like floating houses in the sky and the storm beyond the horizon waits.  Planets stopped in their tracks as if forever was now and the grass roots knew it all.  

But they don’t you know and here I am with both hands high under the skirts of the world.  Trying to figure it out. 

Everything rearranged itself from is to was.  The white moon tracks her silver self across the purple night replacing time with a celestial hour glass.  

Al Purdy