Isn't it strange to become "finished" towards a particular author? I always remember a statement by the under-rated mystery writer, Ross MacDonald that he could often "get around" a certain author after a time, see where they were coming from, what they were up to with their words. But, said MacDonald, he could never "get around" Faulkner or Shakespeare.
One of the authors that I used to seriously collect was Colin Wilson. At one point in my life, his books - especially the Outsider Series - were like maps, guiding me through unknown territories.
Still relentlessly pursuing my ever approaching, never touching Purity.
I've been busy: working out my re-considerations regarding natural language as a form of crypto-text to be de-cyphered (technically, decoded is perhaps more accurate - but there is something there even at an alphabetic level, where cyphers work).
A Gift That Cannot Be Given Away Ceases to Be a Gift
Recently, I've been collecting images of women pouring. Something about that act of pouring. Resonate. Acquiring gravity for me. Centering.
I Keep Remembering This Film That I Forgot
A film of still images like Chris Marker's La Jetee, each with a series of captions. Dynamic interplay between the word and the image, each fighting the other for meaning. This film is called Chimage.
Mute Inglorious Miltons... And so on.
Ruminations upon the nature of fame and accomplishment. Starts with a visit to an eudaemonist and the Stein quote. Haunting. Haven't read much Stein. The authority in the use of the third person singular knocks me out: "one is certain that anybody who really has it in them"
To say that this last year has been difficult would be something of an understatement. In the retrospect that comes with the turning of the year, it seems the word difficult has been in my mouth more often than any other. And so it was with no fear of irony that I pulled George Steiner's On Difficulty and Other Essays from B. Jones' 'bookcase of the essentials' the other day.
Notes on the Vision of God Laughing
Once again, as part of the B. Jones Archive Project (and I will cease with these prefatory remarks when I feel more comfortable with my role as "curator" here), I present one of his drawings from the Incarnations of God series, The Vision of God Laughing
A Pile of Bones at the Base of Art
I recall wandering through a typical gallery in Santa Fe, New Mexico where my gaze drifted over one unremarkable drawing after another.
On the 15th of November of this year, my good friend and mentor, Charles "Bonesy" Jones passed away. He was 60 years old.
My obsessive question of how or what or why one might create in the face of evil, under the shadow of terror and knowing the blackness of our time has led me to the work of Arthur Szyk.