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com/pages/Resonances/224534977671164

WATER FRINGE

digital image by Elaine Erig

JOHN HULTBERG

John Philip Hhulterber was born in Berkely, Calif. He graduated from Fresno State College in 1943, was a lieutenant in the Navy in the World war II , and studied on the G, I. Bill at the San Francisco School of Art.
He was introduced that year to Richard Dienbenkorn was a friend and mentor, also Mark Rotnko andg Clyfford Still were among his teachers, when he  went to New York in 1952 to continue his studies at the Art Students League.He was introduced that year in ashow of the New Talent at the Museum of Modern Art and won the first prize at the Corcoran Bienal in Washington. In 1954 he spent one year in Paris for thi he broght is work to the European audience
His work is included in many collections, included the Guggenhein,Metropolitan and Whiney Museums.He publish several books includem "Sole Witness", a collection of his art in poems. A Memorie, Vagabondage, etc....He taught at institutions on both coast and in Hawaii, and since 1991 was on the falcuty of the Art Students League, where he gave classes until he died in 2005.

I
In the ninetiesI studied whit JOHN HULTBERG at the Art Students League and by his reference I was awarded. Iam very grateful. 

TRALDI

Painted in 1926 by TRALDI this magnificent portrait, PICTURED ignored

MUT

LITTLE PREGNANT!

BLUESSSSSSS....

"I collect DREAMS"  Elaine Erig

AGAIN AND AGAIN BELOVED

I EVEN LOST

.... LIKE A MERCEDES

.... like a mercedes

We are pleased to let you know that your artwork/photography has been accepted into the 2010 ArtWanted.com calendar! The date you will be featured on is: 11/18/2010

WE LOST SAHA BORIS!


He died on 16/06/2010 .

We are immersed in deep sorrow.

TONY CRAGG

 Tony Cragg was born in Liverpool in 1949. He worked as a laboratory technician
 at the Natural Rubber Producers Research Association (1966-68) 
before attending Gloucestershire College of Art and Design, Cheltenham College
, and the Royal College of Art, London (1973-77). Tony Cragg has lived and worked
 in Wuppertal, Germany, since 1977.

THE BIRD THAT BELONGS TO THE SONG...

Digital image creation and manipulation by Elaine Erig

.................................

frayed sunlight
between the pilings –
summer’s end

..................................

cornflowers —
between the clouds
a handful of sky

.................................

a rainbow
over autumn maples…
the laundry forgotten

..................................

drowsy morning…
the bird that belongs
to the song….

by Laryalee Fraser

Laryalee Fraser is a retired reporter/photographer, living in British Columbia. Writing poetry became part of the healing process after her husband's death in 2000, and she continues to enjoy the challenge, experimenting with digital art as an accompaniment to poems on her Web site. Gardening is another passion, giving her the chance to connect with nature while pondering those life questions that drift so close, yet always remain out of reach....

BEFORE NIGHT FALLS - REINALDO ARENAS

TO THE SUN - DIAL

STEEL SCULPTURE BY ELAINE ERIG

To The Sun-Dial

a poem by John Quincy Adams


To The Sun-Dial
(Under the Window of the Hall of the House
of Representatives of the United States)

To The Sun-Dial
Thou silent herald of Time's silent flight!
Say, could'st thou speak, what warning voice were thine?
Shade, who canst only show how others shine!
Dark, sullen witness of resplendent light
In day's broad glare, and when the noontide bright
Of laughing fortune sheds the ray divine,
Thy ready favors cheer us--but decline
The clouds of morning and the gloom of night.
Yet are thy counsels faithful, just, and wise;
They bid us seize the moments as they pass--
Snatch the retrieveless sunbeam as it flies,
Nor lose one sand of life's revolving glass--
Aspiring still, with energy sublime,
By virtuous deeds to give eternity to Time

VACATIONS IN FORENCE

 FOR 5 DAYS

BETRAYING FINGERS

KIM HONG - TAE . Primitivesses + Child ´s Mind , mixed midia on canvas 41x53 cm

Mo Mo

BETRAYING FINGERS


At night I reach out my hands
Bright fingers, pointing
in the direction of roses, my head bent silently
to the blooming, withered
and soft fingers, pointing
in the direction of waves, my head bent silently
to the calm
cold fingers, pointing
in the direction of the cliff, my head bent silently
to those who remain
I slip into spring water pebbles cloves
My hair has grown like wheat, but can't be harvested

At night I reach out my hands
rough fingers pointing
in the direction of language, my head bent silently
to the talking, listening
and slim fingers, pointing
in the direction of a miracle, my head bent silently
to the existing, non-existing
and bent fingers, pointing
in the direction of a dream, my head bent silently
to the beautiful scenes and nightmares
At night, I dream I'm thrown into a slaughterhouse
Death is not a secret, death is a gaze

Dawn is here, the fingers are still pointing
in the direction of a song
Once I sang, but now I have lost my voice
The sun has risen, the firm fingers pointing
in the direction of mother
I was born there, but now I am drifting farther away
The sun is blinding my eyes, the trembling fingers
pointing in the direction of a city
which holds a funeral for me
as if I were a puppet

who doesn't show any sign of life unless touched by a hand
Tears stain my face, I can't see
what direction the last finger is pointing
If it's pointing in the direction of my imagination
then it's the direction of time
which is also your direction
After someone said the water was flowing so fast
you came over and made a whirlpool
to drown me, to choke me
then you pointed your finger suddenly
in the direction of the void

translated by Wang Ping and Lewis Warsh

R

k

DARK LIKE ME

Dream Variation

To fling my arms wide
In some place of the sun,
To whirl and to dance
Till the white day is done.
Then rest at cool evening
Beneath a tall tree
While night comes on gently,
Dark like me--
That is my dream!

To fling my arms wide
In the face of the sun,
Dance! Whirl! Whirl!
Till the quick day is done.
Rest at pale evening . . .
A tall, slim tree . . .
Night coming tenderly
Black like me.

 Langston Hughes

NEVER TRY TO TRICK ME WITH A KISS

Never try to trick me with a kiss
SYLVIA PLATH

Never try to trick me with a kiss

Pretending that the birds are here to stay;

The dying man will scoff and scorn at this.

A stone can masquerade where no heart is

And virgins rise where lustful Venus lay:

Never try to trick me with a kiss.

Our noble doctor claims the pain is his,

While stricken patients let him have his say;

The dying man will scoff and scorn at this.

Each virile bachelor dreads paralysis,

The old maid in the gable cries all day:

Never try to trick me with a kiss.

The suave eternal serpents promise bliss

To mortal children longing to be gay;

The dying man will scoff and scorn at this.

Sooner or later something goes amiss;

The singing birds pack up and fly away;

So never try to trick me with a kiss:

The dying man will scoff and scorn at this.

WHEN YOU LOOK AT HIM YOU SEE DARK NIGTH

CATS...MEOW 100 POSTS

Black Horse with White Chest

Black hindquarters, white chest:
he flies on the wings of the wind.

When you look at him you see dark night
opening, giving way to dawn.

Sons of Shem and Ham live harmoniously
in him, and take no care for the words
of would-be troublemakers.

Men’s eyes light up when they see
reflected in his beauty

the clear strong black and white
of the eyes of beautiful women.

--Ibn Sa‘id al-Maghribi
1214-1274 Central Andalusia

ME PEACOCK

WHAT'S riches to him

That has made a great peacock

With the pride of his eye?

The wind-beaten,stone -grey,

And desolate

Three RockWould nourish his whim.

Live he or die

Amid wet rocks and heather,

His ghost will be gay

Adding feather to feather

For the pride of his eye.

WHAT'S riches to him

That has made a great peacock

With the pride of his eye?

The wind-beaten, stone-grey,

And desolate

Three RockWould nourish his whim.

Live he or die

Amid wet rocks and heather,

His ghost will be gay

Adding feather to feather

For the pride of his eye.

William Butler Yeats