http://www.stephenvincentartpoetry.com/blog daily 0.75 2016-12-09 http://www.stephenvincentartpoetry.com/blog/2016/12/9/day-44 monthly 0.5 2016-12-09 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/556f6faee4b06084871c1f2b/1481316180961-26NCW5J2VII2EXN7COVP/image-asset.jpeg Blog - DAY 44 http://www.stephenvincentartpoetry.com/blog/2016/12/4/day-70 monthly 0.5 2016-12-05 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/556f6faee4b06084871c1f2b/1480918558911-C6LRAC2CVRDBVHLQPZJ9/DAY+70++ART.jpg Blog - Day 70 http://www.stephenvincentartpoetry.com/blog/2016/12/3/day-49 monthly 0.5 2016-12-04 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/556f6faee4b06084871c1f2b/1480830222322-KL39R9VSCCA6Q8WSXON3/image-asset.jpeg Blog - Day 49 http://www.stephenvincentartpoetry.com/blog/2016/11/9/day-74 monthly 0.5 2016-11-09 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/556f6faee4b06084871c1f2b/1478703195336-MB6RD83UY0I4XTWN92CC/Day+74+++Art.jpg Blog - Day 74 Day 75 Election Day Washington, D.C. November 8, 2016   The Last 100 Days of the Presidency of Barack Obama       http://www.stephenvincentartpoetry.com/blog/2016/11/9/day-75 monthly 0.5 2016-11-09 http://www.stephenvincentartpoetry.com/blog/2016/11/9/day monthly 0.5 2016-11-09 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/556f6faee4b06084871c1f2b/1478702698626-SYLMPC6JQ573YMVMPV10/Day+75++Art.jpg Blog Day 75   South Lawn of the White House Monday Afternoon, November 7, 2016 The Last 100 Days of the Presidency of Barack Obama A gorgeous warm “global warming” day in the country’s capital! Lafayette, the street at the front of the White House is permanently closed to public traffic. It is open to pedestrians. About every twenty feet I am in the presence of Security on foot, or bike, or one police car or two. Each man and woman wears armor under their uniforms. Their torsos look about two feet thick. Ones in black are identified as Secret Service. The ones in green are something else. I don’t want to keep track! Green, Black and Gray, some stand at attention, they gaze back and forth across the individual and small groups that walk back and forth to the fence to take a closer look at the White House entrance. Security on bicycles circles back and forth across the street. Somehow being here is like being in the middle of a very active if not deadly virus. I am approached by a young man who wants to know if I will talk into a camera about the “minimum wage”. I say I am all for it, but I refuse to be on camera. This is not an environment to entrust anybody with the use of your image. Further along the street is shut off to everyone. Loud and clear is the grinding sound of pouring concrete and hammers. “They are building the review stand for the inauguration,” a Secret Service guy on a bike tells me. They are beginning to close down Obama’s regime. When the President is at home it must sound like a death knell: the place where all the charisma of his office, his power and remaining aspirations will come to a close. I ask him if he is going to miss the President. “No. I will have the same job with the new person.” I go to the street behind the South Lawn. I see well-dressed men and women exiting the Executive Building. One group I hear is talking about “the Judges.” Others are quiet. It is difficult to escape the sense that they are anxious about what is to happen tomorrow. In fact everyone I talk to is anxious, the fear of a Trump victory is that pernicious. Pens in hand I am anxious about the arrival of Security. I draw for almost two hours. As it gets dark, two Secret Service guys on bikes come to check me out. “I see you are taking notes.” I left my notebook open. I tell him I am an artist and a writer and this is my work. He asks a series of template questions about how I got here from where and where I will be going. I guess I convinced them that I mean no harm. I will spare anyone the rest of details. As they leave, they also will not respond to my question of whether or not they will miss their boss. The job apparently does not permit anyone to say anything personal about the President. I would say the “public heart” is full of holes. I wrote that in my notebook. http://www.stephenvincentartpoetry.com/blog/2016/11/8/day-76 monthly 0.5 2016-11-09 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/556f6faee4b06084871c1f2b/1478669449426-K5QRHURXKN9DCZDIXBUG/image-asset.jpeg Blog - Day 76 Viet Nam War Memorial Sunday Afternoon, November 6, 2016 We write so gently over the long, now dead. http://www.stephenvincentartpoetry.com/blog/2016/11/7/day-77 monthly 0.5 2016-11-08 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/556f6faee4b06084871c1f2b/1478575315974-4VIXZ3U5HTOZKF5WGFY3/image-asset.jpeg Blog - Day 77 Paint the Revolution, Mexican Modernism: 1915 - 1950 Philadelphia Museum of Art Saturday, November 5, 2016 The Last 100 Days of the Presidency of Barack Obama What constitutes the interior life of a nation? Its collective particulars, its grid of shapes and flow of dissolutions? What and where are the fires that feed the shapes that appear before our eye and ears? Equally important, what are the origins and characteristics of those repressive forces that try with all their power to eliminate the fresh articulation of work that will redefine and transform a country’s collective life. This is a great show of mostly Mexican artists who used the tools of the new modernism to fight, educate and redefine the country’s life and future in the 20th Century. First, the exploitive power of new industries the institutional and politically repressive presence of the Church had to be confronted. The artist radicals – many of their names now so familiar - made use of an arsenal that included radical European models of socialist and communist organization, radical aesthetics – political murals and the proliferation of satirical woodblock cartoons - as well as radical approaches to teaching art in the schools. Different from European models, Mexican artists explored the use of Aztec and Mayan architecture and myth to imaginatively integrate the past into the present. Euro-Surrealism also became a tool in the mix. The result I would describe as a towering inferno producing new shapes, visions et al including dead ends and failures. Whatever were the outcomes, the show is a dramatic testimony of artists and poets who revolutionized their communities to seize the levers of looking and shaping the history of both Mexico and its international position in the larger world. Many will say the larger vision failed. I am sure I am not alone to count this show a most powerful success. Among I want to bet the show will challenge today’s gallery models as socially and politically useless.   http://www.stephenvincentartpoetry.com/blog/2016/11/7/day-78 monthly 0.5 2016-11-07 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/556f6faee4b06084871c1f2b/1478539698160-GHBFNPOWCFMG3WY0GQ9N/Day+78++Art+%28latest%29.jpg Blog - Day 78 Facing the Liberty Bell Museum Independence Mall, Philadelphia, Friday, November 4, 2016 The Last 100 Days of the Presidency of Barack Obama Is there an autumn Goddess in the house? Or out here in the park? The dark figure there who sheds colors out of the depths of the darkest bell, each peel a dash of yellow, yellow-green, rust brown or bright orange. As if in prayer before her, stationary or not, even if cracked on the inside from any history, public or private, to go into that darkness; what wells, what rises, a freedom so spacious; to find the body at its deepest dance, song. To die and go there; until one’s end, to come back alive, again and again. http://www.stephenvincentartpoetry.com/blog/2016/11/7/day-79 monthly 0.5 2016-11-07 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/556f6faee4b06084871c1f2b/1478537011004-VI46I4I2VNAS1JE05PVI/Day+79+Art.jpg Blog - Day 79 Evening Train from Harrisburg to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 8:30 - 10:30, Wednesday, October 31, 2016 The Last 100 Days of the Presidency of Barack Obama The tracks are on unstable beds; the shaking train, block by block, taps out its own drawing. The lightly held pens are irrepressible. At mid-day in Gettysburg I was guided through what can only be called killing fields. Up, down and across one field or hill after another my park guide layers up one story on top of another. The dead young bodies are unevenly stacked, criss crossed like the angled stake fences that occasionally border the local lands. To this day the park rangers and archeologists continue to dig up bones and rebury whoever it is with some military dignity. There are those who insist on the presence of ghosts. They want to lead nocturnal tours. The Park Service will not recognize them as professionals and refuses to them license. The Park Service will only honor the verifiable. The guide continues. It is a three-day battle. I learn of the deadly perils of bad strategy, vanity and occasional exception of an act compassion. Taking a hill is advantage. With a good cannon an 8-pound ball can travel up to a mile. When there are too many canons the air is so thick with smoke no one can see a target. Taking hills makes for hand-to-hand combat, the clang of bayonets, more shrieks and dead bodies. Hill to hill, there are statues commemorating, specific battles, one State brigade after another. The defeated south was slow to raise money to create memorials. In 1938 the Cemetery had an event to reconcile both sides. Thousands of the now elderly veterans attended. In the war there were some heroic generals and some not. A northern commander disobeyed; he did not hold his hill and made stupid decisions. Many of his men were slaughtered. He took a cannon ball to the knee, He took home his amputated leg; he skinned and pickled it in whiskey. He carried it forever in a special case as a kind of trophy. The troops that survived his command hated him. When the battle was over, it took months for the remaining locals to bury the bodies. The stench from the rotting dead could be smelled for long distances. Occasionally a statue of Clio, the goddess of history, her white stone pen and tablet in hand, rises up over one of the memorials. I am not quite sure why she is always made to look pretty. My guide was not that version of Clio. As far as I can tell, in less than two hours, with robotic intensity she has told me America’s deepest and most irredeemable story of its first Hell. http://www.stephenvincentartpoetry.com/blog/2016/11/7/day-80-1 monthly 0.5 2016-11-07 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/556f6faee4b06084871c1f2b/1478531535095-C24POP0YWL0T7YX7MQD1/Day+80+Art.jpg Blog - DAY 80     Gettysburg National Military Park Gettysburg, Pennsylvania 4 - 6, Wednesday afternoon, October 31, 2016 The Last 100 Days of the Presidency of Barack Obama The Gettysburg College Cross Country teams use the hilly battlegrounds for practice. As I walk by this exhausted but still "bubbly" group I hear one of the women dis some a woman from an opposing team, "She's from the south and she was spouting all this sexist crap." Terrific young, vibrant bodies, I sense, their memories are still cradled by the persistent resonance of the Civil War, the one that forever continues. No different in age from the slaughtered youth of the 1860's, over dead bones, north and south, they practice their runs, cheering each other on, "Keep your head down Luke!". To think that barely in the country's wings, these days in full view the KKK and Donald Trump are ready to re-shine their own armor, with the vengeful desire to kill and win for whatever racist views they spout. Yet today such a beautiful landscape here, the leaves changing color, rich crimsons and yellow, this landscape of so many already dead. http://www.stephenvincentartpoetry.com/blog/2016/11/7/day-81 monthly 0.5 2016-11-07 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/556f6faee4b06084871c1f2b/1478528084057-JOH0IZ24OFCEW9P21WIS/Day+81++Art.jpg Blog - Day 81   Nico Vassilakis, poet, gives me a private low voice reading of the entirety of his new book, Alphabet Noir; we sit and I draw at a table in the Performing Arts Library, Lincoln Center, New York Tuesday, 4 – 6 o’clock, October 31, 2016 Performances come in all sizes, volumes, shapes and places. Nico chose Lincoln Center and the site of the Performing Arts Library. The site – a beautiful plaza with a pool – is next to the Juliard School of Music. It takes me awhile to realize – consciously or not – Nico has chosen to perform his whole new book, Alphabet Noir, at one of New York’s crowning points for the study and making of stellar performance. For poets and artists like ourselves, who live and work at the margins, and will never appear in performance at Lincoln Center, we have found it also true that we can still intervene in these environments to create a sibling-like performance of our own. We are not obnoxious, however. Nico reads from his book in a low voice; the various tones, rhythms and twists and turns, as well as his reflective diversions, continue to infect the pattern, shapes and colors of my marks on the drawing paper that I have taped down on my plastic computer easel. When it gets cold, we go inside to take a table in the café section of the Library where I draw and Nico continues to the end of the book. It takes us ninety or so minutes to finish. At the end, I am grateful that Nico likes the drawing and reads the marks as a kind of compressed mirror of his performance. I read the piece as unique portrait of the work’s energy, presence and fullness of the work: A standup work of a living anatomy. Oh, yes, of course we could have used a Lincoln stage and a larger audience! http://www.stephenvincentartpoetry.com/blog/2016/11/4/1vsqa66bw6q44571wqboezhok31m3q monthly 0.5 2017-02-23 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/556f6faee4b06084871c1f2b/1478276004367-O0221I5X3N8YS8VJG41Y/image-asset.jpeg Blog - Day 82 Day 82 Jerusalem, Every People Under Heaven The Metropolitan Museum, New York City Monday, October 31, 2016 The Last 100 Days of the Presidency of Barack Obama Gold Gold Gold My eyes are filled, my eyelids are covered, my lips: What is inside is outside. I shine from within the deepest parts! I thought I knew Jerusalem. Did not. My tools are so minimal, the expanse is so large. The Lord’s Alphabet so tangled up in love. The muscle of worship is a divine one. It lifts pen and heart. Novitiate Christian, Jew or Muslim It is best I shut up now. Cleave heart, soul and tissue To the flow and presence of gold in our midst. We are about to be taken.   *   Sorry to be so “undevilish” on Halloween. When I went out from my hotel this morning, a few steps down the street the paparazzi, cameras in hand were waiting for Anthony Weiner – the sex scandal ridden former New York City Congressman - to appear out of his local apartment. “He’s got some explaining to do,” says one. Ah, the media, the new version of the Grand Inquisitor! Can we get this Election over and get back to the labors of getting to real gold?? Enough of these negative folks. Like ecocide they are out to ruin everything that grows.       http://www.stephenvincentartpoetry.com/blog/2016/11/4/day-83day-83-sunday-october-30-2016-new-york-city-ny-shower-slices-the-last-100-days-of-the-presidency-of-barack-obama monthly 0.5 2017-02-23 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/556f6faee4b06084871c1f2b/1478274139175-ZK799JKNUBY70XG9FHWY/image-asset.jpeg Blog - Day 83 http://www.stephenvincentartpoetry.com/blog/2016/10/30/day-84 monthly 0.5 2017-02-23 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/556f6faee4b06084871c1f2b/1477842531862-HX38D1S256HY0HHT6L80/Day+84+-+Art.jpg Blog - Day 84 Julie Mehretu at the Mirian Goodman Gallery, 24 West 57th Street, New York, NY Saturday, October 29, 2016 The Last 100 Days of the Presidency of Barack Obama   Saturday afternoon I went to Trump Tower up on Fifth Avenue in Midtown. Its front sidewalk, some will say, is the belly of the Trump beast. Indeed I arrive to walk into a thick motley crowd. Towards the edge of the curb, elderly seeming Chinese mostly dressed in red and black vested suits or red silk dresses raise their Trump signs as high as they can. A parked Trump pick-up Truck is painted all over with pro-Trump stencils. The driver in a black cowboy hat is being interviewed for T.V. He tries to sound reasonable. “We’ve got to stop immigration. My parents were both emigrants but they came in legal. We got to make it legal” The newsman pushes him with questions. “Look, that tape is thirty years old. We all say things we regret. He is not a sexist. A woman runs one of his companies. About those accusations; if I was raped by a billionaire, I would not have waited 30 years to collect my money. It’s all made up.” Chants come up from different parts of the sidewalk. “Put her in prison now. Put her in prison now.” A woman in a smiling Hilary mask and prison stripes positions herself all over the place, chumming up to anyone, including myself for a “selfie” couple. “You make sure you get that in one in your newspapers.” Other women seem to favor the “Drain The Swamp” T-shirt. Incongruously a group of black men hold up the blue and white Trump signs while they chant, Trump, Trump, Trump. In this whole crowd I cannot help but begin to wonder who is getting paid or not to say what. Originally I thought I would ride the pro-Trump energy into a drawing on site. I can’t cope with the idea of doing that. I realize I despise Trump. I hustle over to Miriam Goodman’s Gallery on 57th Street to look closely at the abstract sumu ink works of Julie Mehretu. On some level the press release says they are about the destruction of Damascus. They are also energetic and beautiful. A redemption of sorts. I take out my pens and my Indian cotton rag paper. I sit down on a gallery bench and begin to draw madly. http://www.stephenvincentartpoetry.com/blog/2016/10/30/day-85 monthly 0.5 2017-02-23 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/556f6faee4b06084871c1f2b/1477841544191-DCWVRG8HXENRMBEREYNE/image-asset.jpeg Blog - Day 85 http://www.stephenvincentartpoetry.com/blog/2016/10/30/day-86 monthly 0.5 2017-02-23 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/556f6faee4b06084871c1f2b/1477841088996-H2JH6C4GR9TB9T9MSLBM/image-asset.jpeg Blog - Day 86 http://www.stephenvincentartpoetry.com/blog/2016/10/30/day-87 monthly 0.5 2017-02-23 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/556f6faee4b06084871c1f2b/1477840131143-KXHODJXXVJODXXAG2FKC/image-asset.jpeg Blog - Day 87   Day 86, Gloucester & Mlton, Mass Thursday, October 27, 2016 The Last 100 Days of the Presidency of Barack Obama Owen Hartford – my old Peace Corps buddy - plays American melodies on his mandolin. We are in his home in Milton near Boston, Massachusetts. We’re back from a midday trip to Gloucester. In 1974 the poetry of Charles Olson with its celebration of the town, including, its Melvillian raw whaling interface with the sea and the vernacular character of its local citizens that led me there; I found a coarse town of aging, wooden houses and a harbor of wooden fishing trawlers. A working man’s town with a few clam houses, fish restaurants and a sprinkling of June summer tourists. No computers in sight. The coastline was a shelf of harsh rocks, sand spits that contoured out into the sea, a few old high rise shingled hotels, few distinguished homes for the wealthy and an occasional little swimming beach. Much more interesting were the hills that rose above the town with its Portuguese and Italian churches – including one with the splendid blue spherical domes – not doubt a beatific delight to sailors returning home from rough seas. Not today. Shellacked with big City money, everything seemed so smooth. Neatly painted vacation homes with gardens, and no doubt gardeners, compact the edges of the shoreline. The old fishing boats are replaced with large steel fishing vessels with machine-operated spools for big rolled nets. A large white tour boat that has the same design of an ocean cruise ship waits at a dock for customers. What was intimate and relatively small has been forced to go big or find an exit strategy. Yes, we still had real good clam chowder and clams. But when they wanted to charge twenty-six dollars for a paper plate of little neck clams, you had to know that the clam house was no longer serving the locals. Indeed so nice to come back to this house in Milton to draw while Owen uses his mandolin to pluck out some graceful American classics including some laments. http://www.stephenvincentartpoetry.com/blog/2016/10/26/day-88-the-last-100-days-of-the-presidency-of-barack-obama monthly 0.5 2017-02-23 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/556f6faee4b06084871c1f2b/1477498729649-67YPIJ49R0OMH80MAMBV/image-asset.jpeg Blog - Day 88   Beacon Hill, Boston, October 25 A walk with David Bonetti, my Boston native Virgil - guide among the invocations of the Founding Fathers, the 'orangy' brick and brownstone: Federalist, to Georgian, to Victorian, to Bauhaus & Gropius; to the afternoon sun and chilly wind to gold dome, white Cross & steeple, to Anglican Loyalist Tory King's Chapel family pew; to worn stone stairway, rippled red brick street and alley. To the Commons to the astonishing bronze three deep relief of black Civil War soldiers marching off to war and death. To early Public Halls to argue the formation of a future; the first black school, to the declarations of Frederick Douglas & his auxiliary love and use of his photograph. The mention of Robert Lowell growing up on the lower edge of the hill among the less than white Irish and Italians. We walk and walk across the bones of the founding City, one script over another, the consciousness comes alive with an old historical intimacy; David, the native once school boy, quotes Longfellow with well remembered accuracy of those men with long rifles at the ready at the base of the "rude bridge". That once declaration and protection of an independence; that perpetual vigilance in this country, wait now and forever for those who continually create it or those who would take it away.   http://www.stephenvincentartpoetry.com/blog/2016/10/25/day-89 monthly 0.5 2017-02-23 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/556f6faee4b06084871c1f2b/1477517051915-16SDA50KXFV9L0E2A5Z9/image-asset.jpeg Blog - Day 89 Day 89, October 24, 2016; Thoreau’s “Hut”, Walden Pond The Last 100 Days of the Presidency of Barack Obama There is no “Hut.” The original house has been carried away to a museum. There is now a pile of stones to signify his absence. People gather them from the hillside near the pond, which is actually what we would now call a “lake”. Some of the white and gray stones have inked messages in English, Chinese and other languages Most appear to be good wishes to honor Thoreau’s memory. While I sit down on one of the bigger stones, my friend Owen and I strike up a conversation with a friendly, talkative, pretty South Korean woman. She is a final year law student at Harvard. She has just broken up with her boy friend of five years. “I am 36 and he still cannot commit. It was time to stop. It is very sad. I came out on the train to get away.” As I continue to draw, one then another group of high school students gather around me. There are Asians, Blacks, Caucasians “Are you an artist? What are you drawing?” I explain. I show the other drawings in my binder. I give them my card. They leave. In the now late afternoon yellow Fall light I imagine Thoreau, what he thought and wrote about the style of different conversations with visitors to his “hut”. If the talk was about the ordinary, they would stay inside. I was an argument with someone about public events, they would position themselves on each side of the pond. As they vented their passions, it was as if their voices were like skipping stones across the water. Unless Thoreau befriended a local Indian, I do not imagine he ever conversed with men and women of different colors and countries from all over the world. The wonderful mystery today is that the site of the “hut” continues to be a source for conversation.           http://www.stephenvincentartpoetry.com/blog/2016/10/25/day-90 monthly 0.5 2017-02-23 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/556f6faee4b06084871c1f2b/1477412915241-FC0ODBFK4RBJG09FK681/image-asset.jpeg Blog - Day 90 Day 90, October 23, 2016; North Atlantic Fall Dress Along the Mohawk River AMTRAK Buffalo - Syracuse, Amtrak. http://www.stephenvincentartpoetry.com/blog/2016/10/25/day-91-leaving-chicago-in-the-dark monthly 0.5 2017-02-23 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/556f6faee4b06084871c1f2b/1477410873946-FUQCKG2CRWZ2SYA50FYI/image-asset.jpeg Blog - Day 91 Sometimes in full darkness, the twist and turns of Angels will appear, among them a singular Madonna. No one knows their origins or why they will take presence amongst us. Some say, if not insist on the factor of prayer. Other say it is only by pure happenstance, luck of the draw, or whatever. And some will say it is a gift of compassion. Whether or not it is in an hour of ghostly need, almost by accident, the Angels and the Holy Mother will appear. They do not do anything in particular. 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Haptics: The Novel Description of this book goes here with link below. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/556f6faee4b06084871c1f2b/1474651500613-EOX603OY26ZM21VYNHU6/Gold-BookII_3181.jpg Accordian Fold Books - Haptics: Gold Book II https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/556f6faee4b06084871c1f2b/1474652088458-QWY7DSXPHS3VWOM4VRW3/GoldBook3142.jpg Accordian Fold Books - Haptics: Gold Book I https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/556f6faee4b06084871c1f2b/1474652381105-MG07SXN5G92HO95NO9VB/_MG_1653_crop.jpg Accordian Fold Books - Haptics: Mount Tamalpais https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/556f6faee4b06084871c1f2b/1474652925665-WRTRUFIRFU0NUS9O7VQE/_MG_1633.jpg Accordian Fold Books - Haptics: Anatolia https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/556f6faee4b06084871c1f2b/1474401826945-FYPGYS20MLHP6XKSNBIK/1.jpg Accordian Fold Books - San Francisco: 8 days at 21st and Sanchez Description goes here. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/556f6faee4b06084871c1f2b/1474402560447-C77F2PC2C8XE51WSYQ19/1.jpg Accordian Fold Books - 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