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Mad Love The SunPost Arts Journal November 2003 Edited by Tony Guzman Design & Layout by Simone Fong Rupert BrookeSEASIDE
Tony GuzmanKEY WEST today the sky is painted by Canaletto and smiles vacantly like a Japanese woman adjusting her bra time is wearing cut-offs and a widow’s perch for a hat is it like tunneling under a wall during a siege? I am heading out into the cuneiform sea death sails taut not sure for a moment if “bowsprit” is a word OFF DUVAL “what are you writing, notes on your salad?” ma femme asks (this at “Papa’s Restaurant”) it’s so nice of them to set up a table at the mouth of Circe’s cave it’s a whole tropical system an escape trick concocted by a sleeping parrot staggering into the light almost alive squawking “very out of tune!” (laughter & applause) with all the sincerity of a waitress’ smile depending on tourists percolating through beach sounds and air conditioner’s hum wisdom of trilobites seeping in like some forbidden stitch perfected by scrimshaw concubines lapping at redemption it gets complicated now we climb right up to Hemingway’s writing studio and look right in: it’s there you build your house or they build it for you but mostly you build it and live in it for a time (I will try to suck it up, thanks) at the other house the cottage (which is why we went there) is occupied so you can’t go in. actual blind tourists touch the bricks outside to Robert Frost intoning the names of new drinks that would be popular at Sloppy Joe’s a good name certainly helps – to be popular, I mean later, at actual Sloppy Joe’s: (the last thing you need is to be remembering bars. things have been going downhill enough) then, off Duval, I see a light and find they have John Ashbury’s signature shy, self-effacing not like you would think and back at the hotel having that, finding it here as far south as you can go my certainty of the heartlessness of the world melts like the dress slipping from the shoulders of a misty maiden materializing on the captain’s watch Elizabeth Doud INCUBATIONYou choose Cornflower Blue. It is almost purple. I hesitate. You say, “Don’t paint with fear.” Even selecting paint for the bedroom has stage directions, and I contemplate the tension in colors and finishes when I am really worried about being able to sleep with this neon hue around me. Everything has to be deep, coming from the abdomen and surfaces are meant to be cracked and prodded until they exude the soul’s yolk. But you can’t have thick cream sauce every night, can you? What about standing in the kitchen with an open can of tuna and a fork? Does everything have to be a sit down meal with endless flatware and cloth napkins? You said, “It doesn’t matter, these are just sets.” Every morning I drink from the same ceramic coffee mug. It’s my prop. In fact, if the whole building were on fire, and I could save one thing, I would save this cup, bottomless with your thick coffee. What would you save? Me, or the little plastic rooster, red and defiant, that has been the centerpiece of our living room for the last seven years? No explanation except, “That’s what the next piece is about.” The egg you want me to lay wants to know the risk before it comes under the hot lamp of your genius. PANIC ATTACKMaybe the man that is her lover is dangerous, always jiggling that rip cord. She thinks she’s cured. But adrenaline compromises nearly fifty percent of her blood flow now, and her sweat seeps out pink. Fumes of nervous exhaustion rise in huffs. The storm drains are swollen. So many disappointments in a calendar year. Someday a real tempest will irrigate our apartment irreparably; but sun bakes patterns deeper. Her fever surges, and a riptide of cayenne pulls her under the reef through silkier arteries that flush at a temperature that she can sip without being scalded. Maybe this was hell’s vacation or a lifestyle. She wants to take Polaroids to catalogue this logic and stash them under her pillow. Michael RothenbergIN MEMORY OF D. H. LAWRENCESentimentality is spiritual realization on the installment plan. – Kenneth Rexroth I’m falling from the gravity of the situation Hold on to me. Peanut oil & flames Rushing me away from my naked playpool of college girls Dangerous women with degrees opinionating me on some bloody cross examination You can’t have what you want It’s outlined here in your lease You’re simply not good enough and probably beat your wife Though you seem charming but… Why are they talking about me? Keep reading. “OUCH!” Endlessly here to suffer Applesauce, peaches, yogurt spiked with blood thinner and narcotics It will be an easy assassination And if we’re correct your room will be vacant in a fortnight And we will remember you fondly, Our Dear Orphan Boy Grand Master Wise and Intimidating Critical but free of moral judgment … Have another peach! “Don’t be so pushy” I would never be “So why are you crushing my toes” I’d never do that “Well, then…” All men have to die
and one would think a sane man would want to take that into account, at least a
little. — Kenneth Rexroth THE FISHERMAN [from Favorite Songs] I It hammers at my brain! That soft consciousness. It’s not there. It’s cottony. It’s clay. Why it’s my brain! I saw on the table, there was a lesion, flesh partition, pearly cavern walls. The river ran, razor cut, red valley deep enough just to touch the bone. I was nothing but this body. No one but this body. It was the song of Dead Travellers unhinged me, took me from the day-bright walk of youth on a winding mystic parade. O, I thought I heard the chanting of the marching of the enslaved parishioners. The moaning bells of the blue eternal hour. II Who are we? We are The Fishermen, cast nets upon aching history, raise floundering on dock a manageable Existence. Though we are unmanageable, we are The Fishermen. Ghostly in cabinways, subsea-corridors. We repair the engines. We serve the sea. And what became of us? You might ask, if you, moment-struck between the eyes were all starburst, what has become of our stinking angels? You ask The Fishermen what midnight port has cash in its pocket and an ache to consume with love years of persistent dreaming? What has become of us? I wonder. Is our poetry only a drinking song, memory gone in a drunken fix? Not sportsmen but Fishermen, We! All who drop those heavy lines, fed over boiling bow of outbound ship. Chanting in secret sea-temples last life, life’s work. Terri CarrionPERSONAL AD AT 33Androgynous, ambidextrous and beige ISO man with calloused hands. UPS driver, plumber or glass blower preferred, although other manual laborers will be considered. White-collar knuckles need not apply. Not interested in a man who will keep me up at night discussing Plato’s Allegory of the Cave. Beer drinkers preferred over mixed cocktail drinkers. Wine is acceptable on certain occasions, but tequila straight up is best. Roses not expected. Diamonds are not my best friend, however, chile rellenos are. Unromantic walks on the beach are nice but hiking in Death Valley is better. Atheists preferred, yet open to spirituality of the Buddhist persuasion. If you are a cat person there is no need to read on. I am allergic. Dogs, birds, reptiles and fish are choices for suitable pets. No pinky rings, no SUV’s. Participants of Survivor and other adventure shows need not reply. No plans of being fruitful and multiplying, but I am a voracious gardener. Road trips are the best vacations. Cruises are unacceptable. Columbo, yes, Kojak, no. I tolerate snoring and somnambulism well. If you are a rock star or have aspirations of becoming one stop reading now. Mastermind not Monopoly. Bi-polars, mild schizophrenics and multiple personalities are okay, pedophiles are not. Not interested in those afraid of death, cockroaches or spilled salt. If you still feel compelled to pause on MTV while channel surfing, please move ahead to the next ad. Bisexuals are okay. Polygamists are not. If you were born under the sign of Sagittarius or any other fire sign, please do not reply. Van Damme, no, Jackie Chan, yes. Black ink not blue, Robert Johnson, yes, Eric Clapton, no. If you still sing along to Stairway to Heaven, please do not respond. Speaking more than one language is a plus, speaking only one well is good enough. Membership to a gym not required. Size doesn’t matter, IQ does. Pop quizzes are to be expected. Attendance is not mandatory, but will affect your final grade. WHEN I WAS IN LOVE Lust and the room grew small as zero. * So I escaped everyday to my silly restaurant job watched Santo, in the kitchen peeling shrimp, extracting blue veins from flesh, with the kind of grace you lacked. * There’s no salvation in distractions, only moments of “what ifs” driving me back to the ocean to search the seaweed and sewage * Clawless
crabs, gull bones, syringes. Blue bottle jellyfish, deflated like balloons the morning after a party. I carry them home, set them on the bathroom sink next
to the soap dish. You don’t want to touch them.
Hansel CastroMOVIE LINESINT. (interior, the inside, the thing that hides.) And the Interior is the LOBBY OF A MOVIE THEATER – DAY. Or Night. Quite possibly NIGHT. A harvest of white heads, of buttery yellow heads, the outbursts of a pop corn machine. MEG, 26 although she lies about it. ROBBY is 29, muscular, and wrestles with the fingers of her right hand. The two of them. And a movie line. MEG It’s been long. ROBBY No, it’s moving fast. MEG It’s long because it’s a good movie, that’s the rule, that’s how the saying goes. Long line, good movie; cold hands, warm heart… ROBBY Big shoes… MEG You clown. Clowns have big shoes. It’s a good movie. Everyone’s in it. ROBBY Give me a kiss. They kiss, chaste, quick, let us not amuse or bother or offend. It’s a date, their third, perhaps. MEG We kiss like the stars do. ROBBY There’s no kissing in this movie. Asses are kissed goodbye, maybe. MEG Don’t say that word. Don’t say goodbye and don’t say the other word either. We’re seeing a love story. ROBBY I think I know what I’m seeing. Women, maybe, briefly, nothing that will slow down the car chases, nothing that will get in the way of bombs that count down towards the great flaming nothing. Meg glares. He has the wrong idea, she thinks. It’s not that kind of movie. It’s a romantic comedy. It has to be. Immediately behind them, a GIRL, 13, with slicked back hair, lean like a duck, quacks: GIRL But nuh-huh. That ain’t it. It’s with cartoons, not with bombs. About a dog, he walks into the mirror into a land where he is the almighty ruler, and everyone knows it, duh. It’s in the poster. The girl points. Her hand is thinner than water. The MOVIE POSTER is red, drenched in white, besmirched with black. ROBBY It’s too red. And far. MEG There’s no other line. (She is puzzled, in a thousand pieces that mostly fit but often have been pressed together in desperation.) The SOUND that comes from inside the screening room is the sound of everything matched to the sound of everything else. It’s the sound of sirens, whistles, bells, laughter, lollipops being licked, lakes crushed in ice, islands baking in the tropical heat, hot bodies and burning bodies and bodies that tan badly. It’s also the sound of a mockingbird being shot down by triple barreled shotguns at dawn. An older couple turns towards Robby, who is still 29, and Meg, who has aged indefinitely. His name is HERB. Hers isn’t. HERB You’re too young to know what line you’re in. You have to listen to me, and it’s good for you. It’s an epic, it’s stirring, it’s about emotions and reason, the cold reason of generals at the battlefield. HERB’S WIFE He’s right, you know. HERB It is about a country that was born and was cradled and sucked at the teat of all that is good and glorious. A country forged, hammered in the flames of war. A country that was patient, and didn’t mind long movie lines, that walked 12 miles just to get to school just so it could learn patience. HERB’S WIFE 12 miles, it’s true. Meg casts her eyes down in shame. She clings to Robby’s arms, but his chin is raised in defiance, and it is pointed at the old man. Such a sharp chin, like a knife. Close up on it, please. And also on Herb’s blue, tired eyes. And on the USHER, dressed in red, who is young but leers and snaps the tickets from Herb’s hands, and says: USHER Enjoy the show. Herb and his wife walk into the room, the doors part and close quickly behind them. These are impressive doors; they merit a detailed examination. Hold on them for a few seconds. Robby and Meg hand their tickets. The usher’s fingernails have been stamped with ink. USHER I’ll tell you what’s playing. The old man, he don’t have a clue. He don’t know. It’s hell in there. There’s blood and bodies and chainsaws and bodies that look like chainsaws. The MANAGER, middle aged, stout going on rotund, smacks the usher, who whelps and cowers. MANAGER Don’t talk so. Show respect. (To Meg and Robby.) It’s nothing like that. It’s pleasant. Walk right in. Don’t hold the line. It’s truly a pleasant show. And you’ve paid already. Can’t turn back now. Everyone’s waiting. Meg clings to Robby. MEG (whispers) I’m scared. ROBBY But why? It’s nothing. MEG I don’t know. What if there is no movie? ROBBY There’s a movie. MEG What if there is no movie. But she is not really asking him, because the movie line pushes them on, a hammer driving a nail in, they are the nail, driven into the wood. Robby shrugs. ROBBY Well, then. We get to nap. FADE to BLACK: THE END Silvia Raquel GuzmanBRAINSTORM
The journey began With your unquenched
curiosity. You battled, The rain beating
incessantly on your poncho. Breaking through the
multitude and Armed only with your
basic tool, You drilled holes
through doors and sifted through like Water through coffee, Sea water through
dry sand. You sneaked in
inconspicuously, Leaving no prints,
marks or trails to be traced. You treasured all
evidence. Words, images,
thoughts, looks, They were all there: Fear, excitement Truth and lies, Faces and proof. That power was
unbeatable and you felt grand, Invulnerable and
happy. You were IT, The dirt, the
doubts, confusion. IT was all cleared
up, and now You had the tools. You walked and felt
proud, Alone, you escalated The stairs. It was dark and you
were tired. The circles under
your eyes hung to your toes like baggage Weighing you down. But new light
gleamed through those tired eyes, Now aged with lack
of time and sleep, Aged by your
senseless devotion. You climbed in the
merciless darkness, Stepping with such
confidence That your feet no
longer seemed your own. You passed the
threshold, And there it was: Your biggest
obstacle sitting in a corner. Your body shivered
and your hands melted on the desk, Its blank face
watched mockingly Awaiting you with
coldness. You had to draw its
expression, Be sincere, bold,
brave and Tell the truth. Your confidence
faltered. It was dreamlike Like crawling over
soft clouds, Not knowing if they
were thick Or empty and ready
to let you fall. You had so much and
nothing, and a chill raced Through your back
prickling your skin. Only a few hours
before the sun Would glint
fiercely, sharply into your eyes. Renewed with
strength as you looked down At the thick muddy
platform of your shoes, You saw a flicker, A flame passed over
your eyelids. And there it
was—through your fingers And onto the once
blank screen, The first line. And it happened
again. As you strained your
brain A second line
magical, clear and concise Looking at you in
the eye. Through thunder and
lighting Finally The rain poured
inside, Your fingers
frantically flowing over the buttons Into life. Rain dripped down
your hair. You were drenched
like a sponge And molding the kind
of work you thought Unrepeatable. Now it watched you Although never
satisfied. With the sun again Your battle began
restored, Clad with new fears
and doubts, Dragging your pride
with anxiety into the storm, Not knowing what
would Become of the unborn
Child. Vernon FrazerEMPTY WINDOWNo dawn remembered, the riddled sunsets ripple their cruel ostinato. Past breezes breeze past, silent anthems breathing shadows over the lapping ripples.
The lasting dusk’s delayed crescendo grays once azure tapestries. The day’s fenestral overture wings over water
whose lapidary crests pulse a music as distant from touch as lost nectar.
Danielle GoodmanTHE INNER LOOP It was all a little exciting: finding where the tracks trailing one story above street level eased into a little platform; going up the stairs and seeing the empty four-way crossing from above now, blank with potentiality, picturesque like a scene in a movie just before gunfire breaks out; jumping the 25-cent turnstile, banging her knee on the heavy turnstile rod as she went over, then noticing the guard on the platform wearing an old-fashioned cap like New York City policemen in old movies from the seventies. “Is it okay? It’s only 25 cents,” Imo said, rubbing her shin. “I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you,” she murmured watching Fer. This was to ward off the bruise, and for him. She allowed herself the effusiveness because it was healing. They had an agreement not to be romantic. The guard’s trousers were too long at the back. The cuffs flapped over his thick-soled shoes. He was about their age, with thick glasses and dull, white, indoor skin. Imo felt glamorous. The glass carriage glided alongside the platform, blocking out the Chinese travel agency across the street and the doors opened. They entered the carriage, into the air conditioning, cool air blowing onto them from the vents. She still felt sticky. Fer held her hand. Imo thought of something conventionally naughty and grinned at Fer. The guard had come on too. It was cinematic, flying around the empty heart of the city near sunset in a glass carriage, alone together except for the guard who looked vaguely out the front window. The carriage rounded a corner and then a great reef of cloud was there up ahead, with the sun behind it and one of the big European planes threading through it smooth as a shark. “Is that the British?” Imo pointed. “I’ll be on that one next week. Do you see the shape of the wings? The sky’s beautiful.” Fer flew small planes. He was a violist with the opera orchestra. He did not find the city picturesque. To him it was barren, ugly, and graceless. This was true. Still, Imo loved looking along the lengthy vistas of homely, surreally empty streets, peering into the shallow, dark side-alleys behind the older buildings. The alleys made it look like a real city. The rest of it, to her, was like a Potemkin village of empty facades and soulless malls erected for the sake of pretending there was somewhere to arrive at while forever driving, driving along flat roads. Only in downtown did the city acquire three dimensions and a sense of time. Its undistinguished buildings, their neglect, and even the utter desertion of the weekend were charming to her, because here something was more important than the passing through. The city’s topography meant only selfish transit otherwise. So, although dirt and disorder could be found all over the city, there was a unique romance to such things as the dumpsters parked up under a fire escape behind the old theatre. “That’s where we smoke,” said Fer, pointing to the alley behind the theatre. Imo imagined the musicians like birds in their black and white concert clothes, leaning on the rails of the fire escape and talking loudly, silhouetted in strange shapes against the evening sky, glancing onto the side-street and throwing their cigarette stubs down into the alley quickly when called back inside to play. Then she looked around to the peeling stucco and wire-shuttered frontages of the homely buildings across the street and found it comic. The two images did not match at all. That was what you got in a real city, thought Imo: mismatches. The gleaming, neutral ranks of office buildings over on Brickell Avenue were too hygienic and tasteful. They did not take a chance on making a mistake.
“Miami is where you come to get it right,” she remembered her friend Paul telling her when she first moved here. It had made her anxious. A year later, she saw that was why the city was like the Potemkin village: nobody could afford not to be seen to be getting it right, or to be seen not getting it right. So they put up scaffoldings as flimsy scenery, and smiled and waved. The carriage lurched around a corner. “Somebody needs to film this,” said Imo, looking out to the sea horizon through a wide corridor of building and track. “Oh, I wish I had a story to tell – ” “Why does that building have windows like that?” asked Fer. The windows were narrow notches incised into the tall, stone walls. “It looks like a fortress.” Fer’s city was ancient, after all, with a citadel on a hill by a river. The track went right past the facade of the building, at the level of its fourth story. Amber lights twinkled dimly along the corridors inside. It looked empty. There was a large expanse down below on the right of the elevated tracks: a crumbled concrete and weed-covered parking lot. There was a single white van parked in the centre of the lot, with its doors open. Nearby stood two women dressed in bright colours. One of the women was looking up at the building through binoculars and the other was waving with big sweeps of her arms. A couple of children chased each other nearby. It looked like a strange sightseeing picnic, the women smiling as the little children amused themselves. The parking lot, fenced off at the end, was empty except for the brightly- coloured little group. “What are they looking at?” The guard spoke up. “That’s the prison of the courts there. Their husbands are up there and they’ve got binoculars too. It’s Sunday. They’re visiting.” Fer and Imo looked back down at them through the side window. The women were signaling towards the tall fortress building. Suddenly Imo put a pair of eyes and a heart behind every notch in the facade. She imagined the man looking down onto the cracked concrete yard and picking out his family in it with a swoop of binoculars. Then he would signal instructions to her while her friend watched him through another pair of binoculars. It would be much harder to see him in his dark room than for him to watch them out in the open and the light, wearing pink and blue and orange.
“That’s the jail that’s next to the courthouse. That’s where they go while they’re on trial or waiting to go to the real jail. It’s not the real jail,” the guard explained. The line of the evening sea came into view around the next curve of the track. It was soft and blue. Imo felt free looking out to the horizon. She glanced at Fer and his beauty standing close to her. Another European plane roared out over Miami Beach. “Iberia. They’re late.” The carriage pulled into a little covered station. “Inner Loop,” read the sign. The guard got off. Imo wanted to tell him goodbye, but she did not. He had already wandered obliquely away along the platform. The doors shut. “We’re all by ourselves.” Imo folded herself alongside him and they stood against each other as the carriage moved off. Fer put his face against hers. She loved the golden scent and flow of his breathing when her mouth was on his. His eyes were open. Imo looked back into their green then turned her head so she could feel his mouth against the side of her head. His heart always seemed to open up like a valley against her. She could feel the surge welling up in her chest, into her mind. Imo felt like a hiker pausing to look out over a valley just crossed, thinking, I have been here, awed by its beauty and proud to be able to witness it, and of the effort to get there. InterviewBy Tony GuzmanDaniel Fiorda: Alchemist of Trash
“… what you’re looking for is the inspiration behind all things to get at the true self.”
Born in Buenos Aires, Argentina in 1963, Daniel Fiorda’s grandfather was an accomplished wood craftsman and his father a welder with a penchant for art. Encouraged by his father, Daniel start sculpting in high school using discarded machinery parts as his medium. His early shows attracted favorable notice in his homeland, and he moved to the States where he’s exhibited widely in Florida, New Orleans and New York. His current show, Hermetic Evolution, is running
at the ArtCenter on Lincoln Road through November 23.
Walking by, I’d been intrigued by the compelling blend of the ethereal with
impacted industrial solidity on view through the ArtCenter’s
glass, and when I saw who I guessed was Daniel in the showroom I went in and
made an appointment to interview him at his studio there. The day of the interview was nutso and Daniel graciously agreed to come to the SunPost office instead. Good-humored and unaffected, he strikes you as someone wholly comfortable in his own skin with a disposition virtually unclouded by angst. You come from a crafts background. How did that feed into your art? Your father was a metalsmith, right?
He wasn’t a metalsmith. He was a professional welder. He was a welder but he also played music, he wrote poetry. As a hobby, in his free time, he loved to make gifts. He created sculptures as gifts for family and friends. One day I went to his workshop and he was creating the “Mona Lisa” as a sculpture. He took the simple, most essential lines of the painting and he did it with all bicycle parts, as a gift. I was 11 years old and that put some sort of seed in my mind. He was not just a welder; he was an artist. But he had to worry about the survival of his family in Argentina during a critical time. Coming from a tradition grounded in craftsmanship, how do you feel about conceptual art, the idea that the concept behind a work of art is more important than the craft involved in rendering it? If you look at just Miami, South Florida, the United States or even Western culture, that may be true. But if we look at the global perspective, craftsmanship still plays the same role it always has. I think conceptual art gained some importance because, culturally, people are losing the opportunity to learn working with their hands. It’s only in the last two or three years that I got an old computer from a friend of mine. But today’s artists have had computers since they were kids. It’s like fast food: the concept of effort and struggle; between what I want and getting it, doesn’t exist. I want it; I get it. That’s a factor in the tendency to conceptual art. Conceptual artists may be beautiful human beings, but with no conception of working with your hands. Just take it to Kinko’s, fix it up with PhotoShop and that’s it – it’s in a gallery. But I don’t think there’s the same substance. That’s my criticism. I’m not against conceptual art, though. My friend Jorge Pantoja, an ultimate conceptual artist, always makes me
wonder. He’s very clever; he hides meanings, and most of the time there’s a
tremendous sense of humor there. I love that type of conceptual art. If it has
life, if it has substance, I appreciate it.
You’ve been influenced by Buddhism. Talk about process,
about physical activity as a way to growth and insight.
Buddhist philosophy is akin to my own sense that every phenomenon, every physical and non-physical entity contains in itself the entire universe in microcosm. For that reason, in crafts, in sports – related to Buddhism – what you’re looking for is the inspiration behind all things to get at the true self. Even before getting involved with Buddhism, I had a sense that every object had its own history, a meaning, a tale to tell. It’s like how an archeologist can tell a whole culture from a simple artifact. That spirit came naturally to me. But the reality was that I was poor. All I had to work with was trash. In Buenos Aires there are a lot of body shops. In Third World countries you don’t throw things away because they’re broken. You use things to the very end. The only material I had was trash, what was left over from the body shops. But in each of those objects was a history, and unconsciously I was already doing meditation on that. Later I met a group of friends who introduced me to Buddhism. You take utilitarian objects and transform them to aesthetic ends. How does the process of turning trash to art take place?
“Metamorphosis IV” (2002)
In my case, it begins with looking at the object and feeling an appreciation of its own form. And since I know the object I’m dealing with is “dead” and “trash,” I have to look at it through the aesthetic lens for the beauty of the form and see if I’m going to use it or not. So art in some sense is operating on a higher level than the utilitarian ends originally embodied in those objects? No. Art, in all its forms, is the ultimate expression of our humanity. Art brings us together regardless of race, religion and nationalities. We all become equal in front of a beautiful sculpture, a dance piece, the reading of a poem. Everything is related, according to Buddhism: it’s trying to develop the capabilities we all have. It’s the same with the non-human: objects, a piece of earth – everything has the potential to become something better. That’s what I try to do: to take trash through to an expression of humanity. It’s not so big, but at least a little section. Do you really think everybody is equally capable of appreciating art? Isn’t there a range of response before, say, a stained glass window at Chartres, from “nice colors” to an overwhelming spiritual experience? What about somebody who grew up working in a mine with no experience of art. Aren’t there different levels of sensitivity based on class, for example? There are different levels of sensitivity, but not where art in the largest sense is concerned. There are differences based on how society deals with our education, but art itself has no class or required “training.” Art can be appreciated by a coal miner who maybe won’t have the same reaction to a painting by Picasso as someone else, but someone else cannot understand anything about picking up a piece of coal from the ground. Even people in a mine can appreciate things connected to materials they’re familiar with. They can tell things by just feeling a piece of rock. People who are all their lives in a museum studying about painters, they might go into a national park and not feel anything about nature. I don’t believe you gain anything by making the motivation “art.” Real art can be appreciated by everybody.
“Sequence 3” (2001) Who buys your stuff?People of courage. Tell me a little more about them. Are they rich people? Poor people?I’ll tell you a story. A lifeguard here on Miami Beach came to my studio and saw one of my pieces and fell in love with it. He couldn’t afford it. They have a salary, but not much. A year later he came back to my studio and asked if I still had it. I told him it was sold and he became real sad. He asked me if I was willing to do a second version and I told him no problem. He gave me a 50% deposit and told me to take all the time I needed to do it. It took me six months, I think. I called him and he didn’t have the rest of the money. He offered me a TV and a fax machine as part of the payment. At the time I didn’t have a fax so I accepted. The point is that there can be a life connection between artists and people. That’s the people I create for: the people who don’t compromise when they make a decision on art. My work is very strong. My work is challenging. If you bring one of my works to your collection, to your home, you have to interact, to deal with it. Not everyone is willing to do that. My art is more for people who want to be challenged.
“Dancing Karma” (1999)
Let’s end with a big picture, big question. What role does art play in the evolution of humanity? Artists have a natural way to perceive that we are all connected to the power of the universe; that we are all equal and we all have the capacity to become great human beings. That’s been the role of art and artists through all times: to perceive the essential brotherhood we have with the planet, the environment and the universe. Also, humankind has the same potential for darkness and evil as the potential to do good, to help others. Nobody has as much sensitivity to that as the artists. Now more than ever, artists have the mission to bring down our own negativities and evil nature and stimulate people to help others and create world peace. You are truly doing art when you are touching on those issues. Contributors RUPERT BROOKE Born in Rugby where his father was a schoolmaster, Brooke (1887 – 1915) graduated from King’s College, Cambridge, and traveled the world as a correspondent for the Westminster Gazette and the Times. Considered among the most promising poets of his generation, he died of blood poisoning on the way to the ill-fated British invasion of Gallipoli in WWI. TERRI CARRION Terri was conceived
in Venezuela, born in New York, raised in Los Angeles and currently lives in
Hollywood, Florida. She is working on her MFA at Florida International
University. Other poems have been published or are forthcoming in Slipstream, Mangrove, Pearl, The Cream City Review, Jack,
Paper Tiger, Penumbra and Hanging Loose. HANSEL CASTRO At age 14, Hansel was forced by well-meaning parents to migrate to the United States from his native Cuba. He’s grateful. He’s also a recent graduate from Florida International University, where he served as Arts Editor for The Beacon and had one of his short plays selected for the Theatre Department’s play-reading series. ELIZABETH DOUD Best known for her performance work with Giovanni Luquini & Dancers and Akropolis Acting Co., Elizabeth has been writing pieces of short fiction and poetry for the stage since arriving in Miami in 1996. Enrolled in the MFA Program for Creative Writing at the University of Miami, she is working on a cure for evil in her Miami Beach laboratory. VERNON FRAZER Vernon’s poetry and fiction have appeared in Big Bridge, First Intensity, Jack Magazine, Lost and Found Times, Massacre, Moria, Potepoetzine, Shampoo, Sidereality, Xstream and many other literary magazines. He recently finished editing an anthology of Post-Beat poetry for publication in the People’s Republic of China. Amplitudes, his seventh poetry collection, and Commercial Fiction, his new novel, were published in 2002. DANIELLE GOODMAN Danielle is a writer and book editor. Born in Jamaica, she studied in London and at Trinity College, Cambridge, and now lives in Miami. She has written about literature, art, politics, travel and personalities for various publications here and in the Caribbean. SILVIA R. GUZMAN A senior pursuing a B.S. in Print Journalism and English Literature at the University of Miami, Silvia writes poetry both in English and Spanish and has published in Metromorphosis, the Miami-Dade College literary magazine. She is editor of the Wesley Newsletter of the United Methodist Church student organization at the University of Miami. TONY GUZMAN
Tony is the
Associate Editor of the Miami SunPost and its Critic at Large. A
graduate of Queens College, New York and the University of Chicago, he’s
working on a very unusual musical play amidst occasional poetic
interludes. MICHAEL ROTHENBERG Born in Miami Beach, Michael is a poet and songwriter with a B.A. from the University of North Carolina-Chapel Hill and an M.A. in Poetics from New College of California. He has published several books of poems including Favorite Songs, Nightmare of the Violins, What the Fish Saw, The Paris Journals (Fish Drum) and a novel, Punk Rockwell (Tropical Press). His latest book of poems, Unhurried Vision, will be published by La Alameda Press in Fall 2003.
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