Evolving aria on art and life

On my lap sits a packet of carrot seeds. In lieu of a handy notebook the packet is covered with scribblings–painters' names, possible first lines, addresses, existential question marks. Tomorrow I'll plant the seeds.


#Slouching toward #Bethlehem

All week long I’ve been bumping into a grousy, brilliantine-haired, saturnine, avant-garde, old-fashioned man. By phone, an elderly friend recounts seeing #T.S. Eliot speak at his university in Illinois, by then the jehovah of poetry. Perhaps the #greatest poet of a century. “This huge auditorium,” my friend chuckles, “was packed. Standing room only. He could have been the Beatles.” A poet. Imagine. Next, a video about the British naturalist and artist John #Newling, who had

#Magic good, magic bad, magic #diabolical

What happens to the #jesters when the #king himself is ten times more obscene? What happens to the #subversive role of the #artist when #democracy itself is being overturned; when #religion hugs the devil himself as a means to keep its kingdom secure? Have we #humanists (momentarily) been beaten at our own game? Our pants are down. Our swords have been stolen. Our old, misty, exploratory lexicon–#contamination, #pluralism, #relativism–has been co-opted in the most poisonous a

Slip-sliding in Florence

My intent is to keep this column somewhere within the misty township of aesthetics. Today I was going to talk about #nostalgia, murky, turbulent, wonderful topic that it is. But that can wait. My intent as well is to take my cue from the week I am in. And this has been a week of flagrant #friendship. First, let me honor #Asheville. We do, we have the best circle of #friends anyone anywhere could hope to have. Bless this city and bless every other point on this earth where oth



Asheville, NC, USA


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