Please take time away from this enormous textual progression to enjoy the new chriseddy website
chriseddy.ca
April 03, 2006
March 30, 2006
NEoTeXt 22
WAIT NOT
Waiting on the street
A broken sign
People imagined move
In the daylight shadows
He walks in circles
Not moving
His feet the concrete
Ideas of his wait
Waste non becoming
Slowing time to
The insane clang
Of a frozen second
Blinded to joy
So unfortunate
To not have
The key
Forget waiting
more neoteXt...
Waiting on the street
A broken sign
People imagined move
In the daylight shadows
He walks in circles
Not moving
His feet the concrete
Ideas of his wait
Waste non becoming
Slowing time to
The insane clang
Of a frozen second
Blinded to joy
So unfortunate
To not have
The key
Forget waiting
more neoteXt...
March 03, 2006
January 09, 2006
ON ARTIST'S SUSTAINABILITY
FACT: The public has a genuine interest in other people.
FACT: The public uses people (artists) as a gateway to art.
FACT: The public shows no interest in galleries.
Yet the media promotes the galleries and the galleries promote the art.
How is the public going to find their way into these galleries if they don't have a person (artist) to create a bridge to the work?
If the proven committed artists in the community are not promoted there will be no sustainability for artists, no art community beyond the hobbyist’s, and nothing much for self aggrandizing galleries to do but throw parties for friends.
FACT: The public uses people (artists) as a gateway to art.
FACT: The public shows no interest in galleries.
Yet the media promotes the galleries and the galleries promote the art.
How is the public going to find their way into these galleries if they don't have a person (artist) to create a bridge to the work?
If the proven committed artists in the community are not promoted there will be no sustainability for artists, no art community beyond the hobbyist’s, and nothing much for self aggrandizing galleries to do but throw parties for friends.
November 02, 2005
October 31, 2005
October 25, 2005
October 24, 2005
July 31, 2005
Twin thoughts on knowledge
THE MORE ROOMS, SPACES, PLACES, YOU BUILD IN YOUR HEAD/THOUGHTS/MIND THE MORE TERRITORY YOU HAVE TO WANDER,STORE, AND LIVE IN.
NO GREATER LENS IS THERE THAN THE MIND'S INFINITE BECOMING.
chriseddy
NO GREATER LENS IS THERE THAN THE MIND'S INFINITE BECOMING.
chriseddy
July 03, 2005
neOteXt 20
Desire lies
I wish I heard voices in my head
Whispers shouts screams and rants
I wish the schizophrenic me
Would rise and tell me
What I refuse to know
Desire lies
A two fold story
But I just hear the one
You are reading
The all of mes
Endless thoughts
Craving more
Stirring pots
For new recipes
So this drone must continue
At least until I die
Inside I am always thinking
Desire lies
Paths of flight feel good
For all the multiplicities
The text continues that is I
A binding force
An illusion of oneness
Nevertheless
more....
I wish I heard voices in my head
Whispers shouts screams and rants
I wish the schizophrenic me
Would rise and tell me
What I refuse to know
Desire lies
A two fold story
But I just hear the one
You are reading
The all of mes
Endless thoughts
Craving more
Stirring pots
For new recipes
So this drone must continue
At least until I die
Inside I am always thinking
Desire lies
Paths of flight feel good
For all the multiplicities
The text continues that is I
A binding force
An illusion of oneness
Nevertheless
more....
July 01, 2005
June 05, 2005
neoTEXT 19
Mother Earth We
Mother Earth
Molten Iron core
Deep beneath
A skin
Of rock
My skin
Cuts
Bleeds
With iron oxide
Red
The compass spins
To the earths rotation
The geese migrating
Along
Magnetic vibration
The weak force
Emulation from Terra’s heart
Voices from the fiery center
Speak
Through my
Vein’s
Pulse
Mother earth
And I
One
More.....
Mother Earth
Molten Iron core
Deep beneath
A skin
Of rock
My skin
Cuts
Bleeds
With iron oxide
Red
The compass spins
To the earths rotation
The geese migrating
Along
Magnetic vibration
The weak force
Emulation from Terra’s heart
Voices from the fiery center
Speak
Through my
Vein’s
Pulse
Mother earth
And I
One
More.....
May 31, 2005
On Different Velocities
Perpetuation is the domain of the art museum.
Change is the habitat of the artist.
chriseddy
April 26, 2005
April 25, 2005
neoteXT 17
Between Black and White and Colour
He looked at me like I was a TV not working
Stuck on one channel
Mine
The look on his face said "I don't have the remote/st."
I kept on talking in the hopes that
He would tune in
Find my wave lengths
But his eyes still reflected static
His hands like a 1950's antennae
Twitching on the roofs tops of turquoise bungalows
In the hopes of getting a better picture
A better picture like the ones on the first colour TVs after being suckled on B&W
Those almost real tones
If he could remember it is like that
It is always like that
So that is what I tell him
"It's like TV, you know, from black and white to colour."
"TV sucks" he says
"That’s part of it" I say
Our words crossing vectors of meaning
He can see my horizontal and vertical hold now
See on his buttons with the labels
Unfortunately I can't stop from rolling horizontally
Flipping vertically shifting diagonally
Wanting to see his picture
With network difficulties
Snow, Lines, static sounds
I give him static
To see his movement
His eyes glaze over he starts to ramble off topic
Drunk not caring if I am the I that is there
Only then I could hear his tune separate
From the hissing
See the picture arise out of the swarm of dots
But he was not a broken TV
With substitute parts and coat hanger reception
Crossed wires and uninterrupted wavelengths
His Vertical hold gone his eyes flickering
His mouth still transmitting waves
As his horizontal hold went
His head began falling toward the wooden table
Becoming wooden TV cabinet
Slumping body
Unplugged
And tomorrow I will again
Broadcast unbroken frequencies
Some even containing an evening in memories
In new arrangements, bisecting, traversing
Avoiding horizontal planes and vertical holds
It is hard to tell them it is not like TV
Fixed lines and dots and cycles
It is some where between black and white
And colour.
more......
He looked at me like I was a TV not working
Stuck on one channel
Mine
The look on his face said "I don't have the remote/st."
I kept on talking in the hopes that
He would tune in
Find my wave lengths
But his eyes still reflected static
His hands like a 1950's antennae
Twitching on the roofs tops of turquoise bungalows
In the hopes of getting a better picture
A better picture like the ones on the first colour TVs after being suckled on B&W
Those almost real tones
If he could remember it is like that
It is always like that
So that is what I tell him
"It's like TV, you know, from black and white to colour."
"TV sucks" he says
"That’s part of it" I say
Our words crossing vectors of meaning
He can see my horizontal and vertical hold now
See on his buttons with the labels
Unfortunately I can't stop from rolling horizontally
Flipping vertically shifting diagonally
Wanting to see his picture
With network difficulties
Snow, Lines, static sounds
I give him static
To see his movement
His eyes glaze over he starts to ramble off topic
Drunk not caring if I am the I that is there
Only then I could hear his tune separate
From the hissing
See the picture arise out of the swarm of dots
But he was not a broken TV
With substitute parts and coat hanger reception
Crossed wires and uninterrupted wavelengths
His Vertical hold gone his eyes flickering
His mouth still transmitting waves
As his horizontal hold went
His head began falling toward the wooden table
Becoming wooden TV cabinet
Slumping body
Unplugged
And tomorrow I will again
Broadcast unbroken frequencies
Some even containing an evening in memories
In new arrangements, bisecting, traversing
Avoiding horizontal planes and vertical holds
It is hard to tell them it is not like TV
Fixed lines and dots and cycles
It is some where between black and white
And colour.
more......
April 22, 2005
Trillium War Machine
Trillium warrior
This rhizomatic Trillium Grandiflorum roamed free in abundance throughout the forests of Ontario. Bringing to the spring forest floor a beauty to match that of the autumn canopy. Then in 1937 it was annexed by the state and given the structure of Ontario's provincial flower. Which resulted in it being raped and pillaged by the citizens of the land and the city. In retaliation the white trillium which lives and multiplies underground withdrew from view. And refused to bloom for seven years commencing on it being so violently ripped from it roots. The state in an effort to save the nomadic flowers and roots started a campaign to warn people about picking them. This has evolved into a myth in Ontario society that it is in fact illegal to pick them. Today the trillium blooms profusely once again in the few remaining forests. Perhaps they should go one further and free this woodland wanderer from its state duty as the three petals painted on anything relating to the Ontario government. Then future generations can greet the Trillium anew. Freed from the head cluttering structure imprinted on the blossom. Free to greet the trillium and be becomings trillium(s) . To be so close and not hear its messages of being one and all, alone and a pack, in the middle and everywhere, is sad.
NeOtExt 16
An Orbital
On the bricks,
A painted yellow star peeling,
Inside a man and guitar playing,
Outside the weather is freezing.
Past the musical constellation,
The people are walking,
Heads in the wind,
Searching the leeward doors.
The music bouncing off,
Their contracted pores,
To cold to toss coins.
Still the star keeps on playing,
To the wind that is blowing,
The notes pass the bodies,
Escape out into space.
This alone seems to please him,
Freed from rhythms measure,
Knowing that harmonies roam,
And for his nomadic pleasure,
Sitting on the sidewalk,
Alone.
MORE.......
On the bricks,
A painted yellow star peeling,
Inside a man and guitar playing,
Outside the weather is freezing.
Past the musical constellation,
The people are walking,
Heads in the wind,
Searching the leeward doors.
The music bouncing off,
Their contracted pores,
To cold to toss coins.
Still the star keeps on playing,
To the wind that is blowing,
The notes pass the bodies,
Escape out into space.
This alone seems to please him,
Freed from rhythms measure,
Knowing that harmonies roam,
And for his nomadic pleasure,
Sitting on the sidewalk,
Alone.
MORE.......
April 03, 2005
Lesser New York
I have linked this article because it points to curatorial problems further afield than New York.
village voice > art > Lesser New York by Jerry Saltz
village voice > art > Lesser New York by Jerry Saltz
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