Posts Tagged ‘goddess’

Fine-Feathered Framed

“Fine Feathered” by Lysa Provencio 


I love this.  The haughtiness.  The clearly defined  borders.   The sight-line that’s as tense and straight as a sniper’s nerve.   

Icy.  Icy.  Icy.   I love the frosty austerity. 

I get a sense of Artemis, The Goddess of the Hunt, who was also protectress of  young animals. A paradoxical figure.  Loading the maternal aspect of her divinity, there is a plumpness within the figures. The woman.  The bird.  The cloud.   There is a swollen,  almost pregnant, softness.

Behind it all is an Egyptian ether.   Infinity and afterlife.  The narrative is traced against it and will pass into it.

The subject’s extended hand turns inward.  Which shows the artist’s sharp conceptualizing power turned against herself.  The coldness works against any kind of liberal or humanist sentiment that Artemis, twin sister of Apollo, was incapable of entertaining.  There’s a divine female grace and strict Apollonian detachment.  Futhermore, the pointed needle signifies a steely self-refinement that’s very yang. It’s yang like fascism is yang.  Not at all concerned with the quantity of blood.  Rather, concerned with the quality of blood that’s sacrificed for its own regeneration.

On the frontier of the battle between female fullness and austere male line, is the scribble in the upper left-hand corner.  A hairy contest between circle and right-angle.   It’s emphasised in black but hushed in scale like a very serious muse.  It’s a key referent where one begins to read the painting from left to right. I see it as a turbulent intercoursing  between motifs that are untangled and solved without compromise in the larger picture.  1)The clear line and 90 degree angle which is an Egyptian, Greco-Roman and fascist motif. 2)The  swollen figures, plush with tender feelings, which is a Rainbow Democracy  motif. Furthering the rainbow mentality, the thought cloud above the blue-bird is a blank. Reason is replaced by a mesmerizing swirl of feeling. Finally, teardrops rain upon the blue-bird with its wing in a noose tied to the arm of power.  

Which brings me to the kind of open-ended question that gives a painting an extended life through right-wing and left-wing revolutions.  Does the leashed bird represent the truth that all of  life is hierarchical, just as the fascists and their antecedents viewed it? Or does the leashed bird represent  the pathos of human oppression as the American Rainbow Democrats and their contemporaries view it?  Only one thing is certain: the painting has a beautiful tension. It presents a modest, and very ladylike,  synthesis of radical opposites.   

There’s a never ending war in this sublimely gentle piece between hyper-control and hyper-emotionality.  It is, I think, an accidental masterpiece.  Created with no ambition to speak to history or the gods. Yet, it does.  Softly. 





Kitchen Sandwich


Dear Ms. Janelle-

Uh oh. I must’ve insulted your ladyship.

A woman’s estate is herself! That’s the cosmic truth that I tried to  tickle with my cockiness. The Diva. The Goddess. The Dominatrix. The Earth Mother and the commanding housewife. They are all variations of the same self-possessed being. And your own lofty aplomb is absolutely tantalizing.

Man comes from woman. An  inner-pocket of genesis, a self-sacrificing  host to a kickin’ parasite, and an irresistible fleshpot in the round. It’s  this inherent magnitude that makes even hard men feel impotent and defile females in porno-films. Meanwhile, their better adjusted brothers write poems about a woman’s unassailable mystique. I know. You deserve the latter.

Mea culpa, mea culpa. I’m open to direction.

J. J.


Here is Ferdinand  Céline’s take on Feminine Mystique.  As an opera singer, you might be interested in death-by-dancer. Ballet dancer.   Obviously Céline is a over-the-top when it comes to a woman’s leg.  He was also over-the-top when it came to Jewish tribalism.   In fact, the following passage is taken from one of his “anti-Semetic” screeds.  Bagatelles For A Massacre.  Funny, how I get pulled into Céline’s  work as if into a woman’s crotch, and become intoxicated by his salts, sugars and earthiness.  I experience  a blind-ecstacy. His  preternatural glut of Parisian pomposity  and barnyard flavor really excites me.   I know.  I know.  It’s nothing to be proud of.

In the leg of a dancer the whole world, its waves, and all of its rhythms, its irrationalities, its aspects are inscribed!… Not simply jotted-down!… The most nuanced poem in the world! …moving! Gutman! Everything! That ineffable poem, warm and delicate which is a dancer’s leg in balanced movement is in touch, Gutman my friend, with the soundings of the very greatest mystery, which is God. Which is God himself! Quite simply! That’s the gist of what I’ve been thinking! Beginning next week, Gutman, after the end of the term, I no longer want to work save for the dancers… Everything for dance! Nothing outside of dance! Life has laid hold of them, pure…has taken them away…given the least impetus, I would go off to lose myself amongst them…for the rest of my life… scintillating…undulating…Gutman! They are calling me!… I am no longer myself… I give in… I don’t want to be tossed away unto eternity!… but unto the source of everything…of all the waves… The reason for the world is there… nowhere else…

To die by dancer!… I am old, I am going to die soon… I want to crumble away, keel over, dissolve, evaporate, turn into a cloud…in arabesques…in the void…in the fountains of the mirage… I deserve to perish in the most beautiful way… I want her to whisper upon my heart… It will cease to beat… I promise you! See to it Gutman that I am close to the dancers!… I want to pass away well, as does everyone, you know…but not in a chamber pot…but by a wave…by a beautiful wave…the most dancing…the most touching...”