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dreaming of books 1
Rather than a full book review, in these posts, I simply jot down a few lines on books I’ve enjoyed.
“The people of the Haida Gwaii tell the legend of the raven – the trickster who brings the gift of light into the world.”
An emotionally raw tale of an outcast, abused and orphaned boy, whose “hair is black like night, and [whose] skin is the colour of Auntie Jean’s strong tea” and his quest to find his father. “I’ve never seen anyone who looks like me but that’s okay because I belong here anyway”. This story about the budding relationship between a father and son touched a deep emotional chord for its sincerity and the delicacy of its prose. One of those books where the tears are never far from welling up, but a tremendously uplifting read.
Available from Amazon
A couple of days ago, I discovered this manifesto on cheap art put out by Vermont’s (formerly NY’s) Bread and Puppet Theater in 1984. While I’ve been aware of the B&P Theater’s work ever since my student actor days in Auckland, New Zealand, in the early eighties, this manifesto was a new find. I share it here as I think it chimes nicely with my own project, Barcelona Free Art, a guide to art you can see for free in Barcelona. It inspires me regarding why we produce art.
The Bread and Puppet Theater company, which this year is celebrating “50 years of sublime arse-kicking puppetry”, was established in the early sixties by Peter Schumann, a sculptor, dancer and baker recently emigrated from Germany, and his wife Elka (apologies if I quote liberally from their website, but the hour is late). Its aims were (and are) to highlight issues like “rents, rats, police, and other problems of the neighborhood”, and it has gone from strength to strength, creating bigger and braver productions over the years.
Anyway, without further ado, the manifesto:
You can purchase your copy here.
Further info: http://buff.ly/1G3p23S
With great shots of early #Cadaques to start, #Duchamp speaks on “avoiding the painting of the retina”, from his Impressionist beginnings to “Nude Descending Stairs”.
Very inspiring! My mind is ticking over concerning my next novel.
I’m going to be dirty today.
As a kid, Mama often met me on the back stoop as I came in from playing outside. With a broom in her hand she’d have me slowly turn in a circle while she brushed dirt from my blue jeans. She wasn’t against sweeping my bare legs either if I happened to be wearing shorts.
“Don’t bring that mess in this house.” She’d say. “Did you plan to get dirty?”
Well no. I hadn’t planned to. I was a kid. There was dirt. We met and fell in love. The end.
I remembered that this morning as I thought about where to plant some things in the yard. I still love dirt. Not potting soil in shiny garden-center bags. I don’t care for the sterile smell of plastic and perlite. I love real dirt. Earth.
One of the finest smells of spring is that…
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