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Veyman-CRKT base frame (60pcs) carries over much of the aesthetics of the Veyman-HK (which started with the Veyman Genesis).
Design journal:
Continuing the Veyman aesthetic with a quad, I’ve been playing with this core design on and off for a while. I have dozens of variations scattered about my desk. I started with how to make a simple, low-parts quad-leg set-up without an octagon plate. It took a lot of iteration, but I settled on this. Then I focused on carrying over the shoulder config from the Veyman Genesis and Veyman-HK into a turret-like body, but a quad really didn’t need the slight angle it added to the overall shape so I dropped it in favor of a more solid tank-like build. This also allowed for a more simplified parts list (just 2 SNOT bricks in the base frame). The core maximizes slope bricks for shaping and implied articulation. Once again, the whole frame was kept angular with only the head/cockpit being curved. With no arms, the body and legs needed to be optimized for hardpoints; the sides of the body and legs were obvious, but the dorsal area between the 2 aft wings is eminently configurable. It’s a little larger than I prefer for a MFZ table, but it’s well within a 10x10 box.
B O L Y, NITA AND THE BIG BAD WOLF
Nita was a child out of the ordinary. Apparently his appearance was ordinary. She had a round face, with rosy buffs and that kind and naïve expression that girls have at their age. She was taller than her years and therefore her figure was somewhat ungainly, her limbs were too long in proportion to the rest of the body.
It could be said that she was graceful, although as everything in her was in transformation it could not be said if she was going to be beautiful or not. The hair was a separate chapter, it was really beautiful, a long jet black mane that framed green eyes diluted in a little dark gray. As a counterpoint a funny nosed up.
At home it was the desperation of his parents, especially his mother.
He didn't help her at all with household chores, he didn't even have her room tidy. It was a total lion, you could hardly enter the chaos that existed.
They lived on the outskirts of town, in the countryside. He didn't milk the cows, he didn't milk the goats. Nor did he put hay on them or take them out for a walk. When he did not see her, his father even took a pebble and threw it to the cat so that he ran out of fright. Or he would squeal into the chicken coop to scare away the roosters and hens.
I only ate tomato cake and drank milk. Never fruit, he was unable to taste an apple, a pear, or even a sweet banana. Neither eat a stew or a beef stew.
She dressed in any worn rag of her older sisters and wore simple slippers.
She got along badly with her brothers, she became like a porcupine, they could not approach her.
At school it was also a very unique case. He did not obey the teachers; Disobedient, he went to his ball without paying attention in classes. According to a test they gave her, she was smart and smart but she didn't want to know more than just enough so they wouldn't kick her out of school.
Her parents had often gone to talk to the teachers, even to the school principal, who informed them of their daughter Nita's indifferent and passive attitude. She didn't identify with any classmates, had no friends, and didn't participate in common playground games. Little by little they were leaving it aside. Or maybe she was the one who went to a corner without wanting to know anything about anyone.
After the interviews with the director the parents armed the marimorena, what was going to become of her tomorrow, no boy would approach her and things like that.
Nita nodded to everything paying close attention but as if nothing. Then everything remained the same.
...............................
Like every night after eating his piece of cake and drinking his milk, he went to the bank of the river that passed by. His parents didn't want him to go there. Sometimes a stranger would hover around and could give him a good scare. As the stranger brought her carelessly, they scared her by telling her that a hungry wolf that had eaten an entire chicken coop was prowling. And it was true But also the fierce canid worried a cumin.
So he sat on the shore and began to watch the water flow. From time to time a frog would jump and splash in the water by splashing it.
But what he liked most was to see the stars. How many times he wanted to count them, he couldn't. They were pretty. And they shone in the blackness of the sky. They looked the same but Nita discovered a different intensity in each of them. He would be stunned and end up with neck pain from staring at them for so long with his head raised.
The moon was reflected in the river. And even the stars, so quiet that the current was. That's why he saw so clearly the face of the wolf next to him. He had a large head and teeth protruded from his mouth.
Nita didn't panic.
- Hello, wolf. – he said calmly.
The animal opened its mouth to give a big yawn and it was not known if it was out of boredom or hunger.
- Sit with me, wolf. I am always alone and your company will be good for me. Look up. I present to you Orion, to Pegasus, to Ursa Major, to Ursa Minor, to all the inhabitants of Heaven. Look how beautiful the stars are, there is nothing like it.
The wolf leaned its hind legs on the grass and looked into infinity. His eyes widened at times.
They certainly formed a most unusual picture. An innocent girl and a huge and terrifying wolf, ecstatic in the contemplation of the stars. Nita stroked the wolf's head and the wolf growled pleased.
And if that was surprising, it was even more so that the radiance that appeared before their eyes and came to meet them.
It was a gigantic orange ball and it fell right next to where they were. Everything was so sudden that they didn't have time to startle.
They discovered a very deep hole from which smoke was coming out and smelled scorched.
Nita and the wolf peeked out and heard some moans.
- Help me out of here - sounded a voice down there.
Nita reached out gropingly, half her body inside the hole as the wolf held her dress with his teeth.
When he found something that looked like a hand, he pulled with all his strength upwards. The wolf also made a great effort, and at last they managed to bring that to the surface.
What they saw blew them away. It was a mixture of Caponata and Spinette hen, although it did not have a well-defined shape, it was somewhat rare and released colored sparks. It was about the size of the girl.
"Hello," said that thing, "my name is Boly and I come from a place far away.
Who are you? You don't look like them at all.
- My name is Nita and he is a wolf. How did you come here? Are you a Martian? What a scare you have given us.
- I don't know what a Martian is. I come from Perolandia, and I've left home, I don't want to live there anymore.
- What nonsense, leaving home, with how well you are, your parents always looking out for you.
- I'm gone because I'm small and nobody pays attention to me, no matter how much I talk they don't listen to me. And because I'm so ugly, I'm horrible.
Nita and the wolf looked at him carefully. He was nothing like them, of course. He had two eyes that as he moved his head in which direction they turned into four, or six, he was curious. Each of a different color. Seen one by one they were beautiful, they shone. The hands were like mittens and he had two ears, yes.
"Tell me where I am," Boly asked, "I got on the rocket and it shot out without knowing where I was going.
- You are on Earth, where the wolf and I live; well, my family and everybody," Nita explained.
- Well, it's all very dark, I don't know if you've noticed.
- You're dumb, don't you see it's night?
- I don't know what night is, and what a fool is. I don't understand anything about Earth
Nita armed herself with patience and gradually updated him on how everything was; that when it was dark it was called night and when there was light it was day. And that a fool was someone who didn't know things.
- Well, in Perolandia there is always light, it is never night. And I'm not a fool, I study the quintennium and soon the sentenium. I know the sidereal spaces, the squares of the circles and the alypios of Mars. And I've been analyzing the Andromeda quasar. And triple factor math has no secrets for me.
- What words you spend - the wolf decided to speak - you have left us checkered.
And he let out a chuckle between his jaws. But it was too late and Nita and the wolf hid Boly in the same hole covering him with branches promising to return the next night.
- - - - - - - - - - - -
The night after they found Boly outside the hole and as soon as he saw them he told them he was very hungry, to bring him something. So Nita got what she could from the fridge; One apple, two pears. a banana and remains of beans with chorizo and half a plate of macaroni that had been left over.
Little Boly got a kind of little band out of his head and deposited the food there; First the beans, then the banana and then the other.
And as the food came in, it sounded like a kind of music, it was the most curious.
- Mmmm, I've never eaten anything so delicious, in Perolandia we don't have this tasty food. I want more, bring me everything you can.
- Now it's too late, Boly, tomorrow I'll bring you more again, okay?
- And you, what do you study? You know mathematics and arithmetic, history, do you speak several languages like me?
The girl and the wolf looked at each other not knowing what to answer, but the wolf said:
- I am a wolf and wolves never went to school, as children our mother teaches us to obey the head of the pack and to hunt rabbits and hares, partridges, and all those little animals that can serve as sustenance. To look for water and above all to protect ourselves from the man who considers us his enemy and whom we only approach to visit his chicken coops and flocks when hunger squeezes us and we can no more.
Boly waited for Nita's answer. She thought the answer.
- I go to school and learn things.
- What are things?
Nita lowered her head. He didn't know how to tell her the things he knew. And Boly understood.
- You have no studies, Nita, you do not know what there is to know. The other girls will be more advanced than you, right? You don't know Mathematics, Grammar, and you don't speak languages, right?
Nita was embarrassed. In short, I had told her that she was ignorant. And that hurt him.
- Nita, I didn't mean to offend you, nobody is born taught. But we have to learn many things to fend for ourselves and move through this complicated world and be useful to others. But we could do one thing, Nita: I'll teach you the things you don't know and I'll learn to cook the tasty meals you bring me, okay?
Nita liked the idea and the next day they put it into practice. Boly proved to be such a good and patient teacher that the girl inadvertently acquired the knowledge she had not assimilated in school.
At school he armed the revolution, was the astonishment of the teachers. Suddenly Nita got very good grades and no one could explain this unique fact. When he went out to the blackboard, he left his teammates with their mouths open. And she was always so happy that she was part of the other children's rings, she was the first to sign up for the games.
At home his mother could not believe that change. He took care of the animals in the stable, milked the cows and goats and took them out to the meadow. And, most surprisingly, he suddenly wanted to learn to cook and wrote down all those recipes that his mother stewed to put them into practice; He made potato omelette, fried squid, chicken chilindrón, little by little he acquired practice.
But a surprising fact happened: for the first time in her life Nita tasted and tasted all those foods that her mother made. The cause was Boly; he liked the meals the girl brought him so much and was so comfortable that Nita was curious and then envious watching him eat. He understood how many flavors and good things he had overlooked.
But the wolf also benefited from the teachings of both. He learned algebra, syntax, English, and notions of French, even how to make a rich garlic oil and a sponge cake.
They formed a very close team and the hours they were together flew by. But Nita was thinking about it and she told Boly.
- And you, Boly, why did you leave your planet leaving your home?
- I already told you; I am very small, everyone overwhelms me and nobody pays attention to me. Besides, look at me, don't you see how ugly I am? Horrifying.
- Boly, do you have a picture of your family? I would like to meet them.
- I'll do better than show you a picture. Look......
From one of their eyes came a ray of light and appeared as a giant 3D television screen, giving the feeling that they were part of the scene. Nita and the wolf saw images of Boly with his family. They were very tall beings, phosphorescent colors and extremely beautiful and fantastic. Of course Boly was right, he was very small by his side and not at all graceful compared to his parents and siblings.
Nita immediately realized the situation that Boly was going through.
- Boly, I think I already know why you are so small and look so nasty.
-Yes? You don't say......
- It's very easy to know what you're going through. Just answer me a question, Boly: when you were born your brothers were as big as they are now?
- Yes, of course, they were that tall and well-formed, and I was a birria next to them, although now I am not as small as I was then.
- Well, that's the key to everything, don't you realize? You are like the protagonist of a story that was read to me as a child and was called "The Ugly Duckling". It was very small and black, it did not attract attention at all. And when he grew up he became what he was, a beautiful swan that caused admiration. Thus, Boly, as time goes by, you will become tall and attractive like your parents and siblings, you will wear those colors so bright and amazing, and you will have only three eyes and not five or six as now. And your legs will be longer and your hands bigger and your voice prettier.
You are not ugly, Boly, you will be handsome and cause admiration. Now you are growing, you have to go through this stage.
- You mean I'll stop being small and with six eyes? That I will have the colors of my brothers?
- Sure, Boly, you'll see.
The little perolandio's face suddenly lit up and something that looked like tears peeked through his multiple eyes.
The wolf, who had remained silent all the time, rested one of his paws on Boly and affectionately said to him:
- I want you to know, Boly, that you are the most of the most, I never met anyone as amazing as you. You are funny, loyal, witty, funny, and even being small and with six eyes you are beautiful and attractive, really.
- Thank you, wolf, your sincerity moves me. I would like you to know my world, there you would not have to chase rabbits or chickens.
- - - - - - - - - -
After a while had passed, it was time to separate. It had been a time of fun, of surprises, but also of learning and above all of happy and affectionate friendship.
Nita learned through Boly and the Wolf to relate to others by abandoning her individuality and participating fully in her family life.
Boly regained confidence in himself and realized that no matter the size or physique of each one, that the main thing is what we carry inside and share with others.
The wolf discovered that he was at ease with humans and had good feelings and that there were beings and worlds as extraordinary as Boly
- - - - - - - - -
Nita is still looking at the stars every night. She is enraptured by so much immensity and beauty. And she, and no one else but her, is able to hear the howl of her unforgettable and beloved wolf coming to her from the other corner of the universe.
And a sweeter-than-honey tear slips down her rosy cheek....
.
This former saloon is located near Lake Henshaw, CA, sharing the isolated site only with a former gas station, the picture of which I posted earlier. So you could gas up your car and get gassed yourself at this spot......and perhaps find a hot chick (read on). www.flickr.com/photos/138983880@N03/40849603782/in/datepo...
One of the signs in the window said the following or something similar: "only saloon with the hottest chicks in town." Read what you like into this mangled syntax.
It appeared that some new development at the site might be imminent.
Syntax
Message
I heard these words in my head
Made me think about love instead
Made me think about what could be
Made me shake a little now I'm free
I was in a world so blue
With only visions of me and you
It could have cost me my soul
I could have lost all control
Here I go again
Feelings I can not describe
How did I get here
The walls of my mind I climb
Here I am again
Faces I don't recognize
I got a message
Now I got me searching for my goal
I got me dreaming of rock and roll
Feels like i'm falling free in the sky
Feels like i'm learning now how to fly
Now I got to tear down these walls
Got to run to her when she calls
Got to stand up and be a man
Got to do it 'cause I know I can
I was in a shaky state
I was losing my grip on time
Here all over the place
The walls of my mind I climb
Here I go again
Feelings I can not describe
How did I get here
The walls of my mind I climb
Here I am again
Faces I don't recognize
I got a message
So the journey was full of event
I met you, I met her, I met them
But how could I ever prevent
The escape to my own minds den
I was in a shaky state
I was losing my grip on time
I was here all over the place
The walls of my mind I climb
Here I go again
Feelings I can not describe
How did I get here
Here I am again
Faces I don't recognize
I got a message
I got a message
I got a message
Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath 'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual. This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting. In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset. Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'. This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant
Tali Tamir
Numbers, letters, lets look at the blueprints. Puzzles, messages, lets look at the plan. Encrypted, decrypted, encoded information, the cipher of the decipher of the text. Predicted, restricted, classified information, the data of the metadata of the context. What are the algorithms, the sequences, the calculations of the code of the Beast Mode? What is the linguistics of the morphology of the syntax of the semantics of the schematics?
The coming apocalypse, the four horsemen of the apocalypse. The prince of darkness, the Mark of the Beast. Mystery Babylon, Babylon the Great. The battle of Armageddon, the second coming of Christ.
Psalm 75:8 “In the hand of the LORD is a cup full of foaming wine mixed with spices; he pours it out, and all the wicked of the earth drink it down to its very dregs.”
They control the information. They control the information flow. They collect the information. They run the data through computer models and simulations. Data is the future. Those who control the data will control the future. In fact, you could say: Those who control the data will know the future. The more AI advances, the more it can predict the future. That’s why those at the top think: if we can predict the future, we can control the future. Well, that’s what they think. In reality, they can’t see their own future demise. They can’t beat God. They can fight against Him, but in the end they will lose.
Technology speeds up time. Not that time itself speeds up, but that more can be accomplished in the same amount of time. “But you, Daniel, keep this prophecy a secret; seal up the book until the time of the end, when many will rush here and there, and knowledge will increase.” Technology has allowed us to “rush” here and there. Technology has caused knowledge to increase. The coming technology will change the current landscape forever. “The end will come like a flood.” As time speeds up more and more, these crazy technological ideas/goals will come in quickly and take many by surprise. The globalists have this goal in mind: to usher us into the Fourth Industrial Revolution. What does this mean for humanity? It means transhumanism: 666 the Mark of the Beast.
Isaiah 26:20-21 “Come, my people (bride), enter your chambers (wedding chamber), and shut your doors behind you; hide yourselves (in the Lord) for a little while (7 years) until (God’s wrath/Tribulation) the fury has passed by. For behold, the LORD is coming (second coming of Christ)out from his place to punish the inhabitants of the earth for their iniquity, and the earth will disclose the blood shed on it, and will no more cover its slain.”
by Susan C. Shelmerdine.
This is the Latin textbook we are using for Latin I. We will study a chapter a week until the end of the semester 13 weeks from now.
This text will also be used for Latin II next semester starting in January 2019.
The Latin joke:
Latin is a language, dead as dead can be,
first it killed the Romans, and now it's killing me!
As of September 30/18, Chapter 5. We will get to Chapter 13, then break for Christmas. Next semester we will go to the end, Chapter 32.
Here is the Agamemnon with stickers applied and micro Starfury fighters flying formation.
This micro Starfury design was created by my buddy Dark_Syntax after he found out that I was building the Omega Class Destroyer for SHIPtember. Huge thanks to him for a really cool design that only uses 12 parts! They are scaled just a little too big for the ship, but I still think they look totally awesome!
My other buddy ZKaiser helped me out by printing the custom made stickers that I designed. He did a really nice job, especially on getting the perforations on the letter "A" to come out so cleanly. Huge thanks to him as well!
(Image modifiée Lr).
Ne PAS oublier La PoéSiE.
///
La peine de mourrir m'a si fort embrasé que mon feu
s'est uni au soleil.
C'est lui qui me renvoie maintenant dans la parfaite
syntaxe de la pierre et des airs,
Donc qui je cherchais à être, je le suis,
O été de lin, judicieux automne,
Hiver infime,
La vie dépose l'obole de la feuille d'olivier
Et d'un simple petit grillon dans la nuit des insensés
déclare à nouveau légitime l'Inespéré.
Odysseus Elytis
A mashup of my Veyman Genesis and Foghammer's HK-1390. I've always loved the shape of the HK-1390; it's hunched-over fighterjet vibe and the combined lack of torso and high, bulky legs.
Full soldier loadout (RdRd Y B G SSR): rifle, comms/sensor pack, jumpjets, and a reactive forceshield (plus decorative holstered pistol). 66pcs in the core. 97pcs as shown.
since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you.....
ee cummings
Texture layer from les brumes, with many thanks.
www.flickr.com/photos/lesbrumes/3367879600/in/set-7215761...
(c) Dejan Jovanovski
Koco Racin’s house, Veles, Macedonia
UTATA front page for April 30 2007
Text By Catherine Jamieson
Maker: Frank Eugene (1865-1936)
Born: USA
Active: USA
Medium: Photogravure
Size: 4 1/2" x 6 1/2"
Location: USA
Object No. 2016.806
Shelf: A-7
Publication: Caffin, Charles, Photography As A Fine Art, Doubleday, Page & Company, New York, 1901, pg 86
Camera Work, The Complete Illustrations 1903-1917, Taschen, 1997,
La Boheme, Museum Ludwig/Steidl, Koln, 2010, pg 266
Robert Doty, Photography as a Fine Art, George Eastman House, Rochester, 1960, pg 8
Other Collections: MOMA
Notes: from American Pictorial Photography: Series Two. New York: Published for "Camera Notes" by the Publication Committee of the Camera Club, 1900. Portfolio (18 plates) : photogravures ; 19 x 15 cm. and smaller. Limited to 150 copies. No 6.
Through his activities as a photographer, critic, dealer, and theorist, Alfred Stieglitz had a decisive influence on the development of modern art in America during the early twentieth century. Born in 1864 in New Jersey, Stieglitz moved with his family to Manhattan in 1871 and to Germany in 1881. Enrolled in 1882 as a student of mechanical engineering in the Technische Hochschule (technical high school) in Berlin, he was first exposed to photography when he took a photochemistry course in 1883. From then on he was involved with photography, first as a technical and scientific challenge, later as an artistic one. Returning with his family to America in 1890, he became a member of and advocate for the school of pictorial photography in which photography was considered to be a legitimate form of artistic expression. In 1896 he joined the Camera Club in New York and managed and edited Camera Notes, its quarterly journal. Leaving the club six years later, Stieglitz established the Photo-Secession group in 1902 and the influential periodical Camera Work in 1903. In 1905, to provide exhibition space for the group, he founded the first of his three New York galleries, The Little Galleries of the Photo-Secession, which came to be known as Gallery 291. In 1907 he began to exhibit the work of other artists, both European and American, making the gallery a fulcrum of modernism. As a gallery director, Stieglitz provided emotional and intellectual sustenance to young modernists, both photographers and artists. His Gallery 291 became a locus for the exchange of critical opinions and theoretical and philosophical views in the arts, while his periodical Camera Work became a forum for the introduction of new aesthetic theories by American and European artists, critics, and writers. After Stieglitz closed Gallery 291 in 1917, he photographed extensively, and in 1922 he began his series of cloud photographs, which represented the culmination of his theories on modernism and photography. In 1924 Stieglitz married Georgia O'Keeffe, with whom he had shared spiritual and intellectual companionship since 1916. In December of 1925 he opened the Intimate Gallery and in 1929 opened a gallery called An American Place, which he was to operate until his death. During the thirties, Stieglitz photographed less, stopping altogether in 1937 due to failing health. He died in 1946, in New York. (source: The Phillips Collection)
Frank Eugene (19 September 1865 – 16 December 1936) was an American-born photographer who was a founding member of the Photo-Secession and one of the first university-level professors of photography in the world. Eugene was born in New York City as Frank Eugene Smith. His father was Frederick Smith, a German baker who changed his last name from Schmid after moving to America in the late 1850s. His mother was Hermine Selinger Smith, a singer who performed in local German beer halls and theaters.
About 1880 Eugene began to photograph for amusement, possibly while he was attending the City College of New York.
In 1886 he moved to Munich in order to attends the Bayrische Akademie der Bildenden Künste (Bavarian Academy of Fine Arts). He studied drawing and stage design. After he graduated he started a career as a theatrical portraitist, drawing portraits of actors and actresses. He continued his interest in photography, although little is known of his teachers or influences. He returned to the United States, and in 1899 he exhibited photographs at the Camera Club in New York under name Frank Eugene. The critic Sadakichi Hartmann wrote a review of the show, saying “It is the first time that a truly artistic temperament, a painter of generally recognized accomplishments and ability asserts itself in American photography.” A year later he was elected to The Linked Ring, and fourteen of his prints were shown that year in a major London exhibition. Already at this stage in his career he had developed a highly distinctive style that was influenced by his training as a painter. He assertively manipulated his negatives with both scratches and brush strokes, creating prints that had the appearance of a blend between painting and photography. When his prints were shown at the Camera Club in New York, one reviewer commented that his work was "unphotographic photography."
In the summer of 1900 an entire issue of Camera Notes was devoted to his art, an honor accorded only a few other photographers. In early 1901 he traveled to Egypt. He returned a few months later and met with photographer F. Holland Day in Narragansett, R.I., during the summer. In late 1902 Eugene becomes a Founder of the Photo-Secession and a member of its governing Council. In 1904 one gravure published in Camera Work, No. 5 (January). In 1906 Eugene moved permanently to Germany. He was recognized there both as a painter and a photographer, but initially he worked primarily with prominent painters such as Fritz von Uhde, Hendrik Heyligers, Willi Geiger, and Franz Roh. He photographed many of these and other artists at the same time. He also designed tapestries that he used as backgrounds in his photographs. A year later he became a lecturer on pictorial photography at Munich’s Lehr-und Versuchs-anstalt fur Photo graphie und Reproduktions-technik (Teaching and Research Institute for Photography and the Reproductive Processes). At this point, photography rather than painting became his primary interest. He experimented with the new color process of Autochromes, and three of his color prints are exhibited at Alfred Stieglitz’s Photo-Secession Galleries in New York. In 1909 two more of his gravures were published in Camera Work, No. 25 (January). In 1910 twenty-seven of his photographs were exhibited at a major exhibition in Buffalo, New York. The catalog for this show described Eugene as the first photographer to make successful platinum prints on Japan tissue. Ten more of his gravures published in Camera Work, No.30 (April), and fourteen additional images appear in No.31 (July). More than any other photographer of the early 20th century, Eugene was recognized as the master of the manipulated image. Photographic historian Weston Naef described his style this way:
"The very boldness with which Eugene manipulated the negative by scratching and painting forced even those with strong sympathy for the purist line of thinking like White, Day and Stieglitz to admire Eugene's particular touch...[he] created a new syntax for the photographic vocabularity, for no one before him had hand-worked negatives with such painterly intentions and a skill unsurpassed by his successors." In 1913 he was appointed Royal Professor of Pictorial Photography by the Royal Academy of the Graphic Arts of Leipzig. This professorship, created especially for Eugene, is the first chair for pictorial photography anywhere in the world. Two years later Eugene gave up his American citizenship and became a citizen of Germany. He continued teaching for many years and was head of the photography department at the Royal Academy until it closed in 1927. Eugene died of heart failure in Munich in 1936.
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5D
85mm f/1.8
SB-28 through white satin umbrella just above camera
Shot of my (ex) girlfriend. This is my first time ever trying skin retouching
This one looks best large
Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath
'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual.
This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting.
In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset.
Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'.
This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant
Tali Tamir
Emily Dickinson poem. "If the relics of childhood are still present though transcended in the poem, that only adds to the poem's profound insight, expressing an abiding reality of the human consciousness. . . .[T]he picture presented in the poem, of the poet alone with her dog outside the town's limits, pursued by the rising tide of consciousness or (to change the metaphor to that of another of her poems) by 'That awful stranger Consciousness', the presence whom she is trying to exorcise or master through the return to the town." Kenneth Stocks comment on it.
Interesting what you get when you Google "mystic dog walk"!
And if you want to know more and read the poem:
By Robin Ekiss www.poetryfoundation.org/learning/guide/237890
Many poets have written about the sea: Whitman, Baudelaire, Rimbaud . . . a list that goes all the way back to Homer. For some people and poets, the ocean represents adventure and escape. For others, its vastness suggests the infinite depths of the self or the unconscious, even danger, which also lurks beneath the waves. For Emily Dickinson (who’d never actually seen the ocean), its unfathomable beauty represented many of these things and more. In her poem, “I started Early — Took my Dog,” we can fully experience the ocean’s power over the poet’s imagination.
Though unpublished—and largely unknown—in her lifetime, Dickinson is now considered one of the great American poets of the 19th century. She spent most of her adult life at home in Amherst, Massachusetts, but her reclusive tendencies didn’t stop her from roaming far and wide in her mind.
Like most of Dickinson’s work, this poem relies heavily on the hymn and ballad forms. As a churchgoer, Dickinson was very familiar with hymns, whose rigid rhyme and syllable structure create a melody that’s recognizable in many of her poems, which can be sung to familiar hymn tunes, such as “Amazing Grace.” Because of its religious association, the hymn form brings a certain spiritual gravity to Dickinson’s work, lending her poems about everyday experience a kind of religious reverence.
Dickinson also relied on the ballad in structuring her poems. Composed of four-line stanzas with strong rhythms, repetitions, and rhymes (usually on the second and fourth lines), ballads were traditionally a form of storytelling set to music. When Dickinson’s lines are read out loud, it’s easy to see (and hear) how they create their own song that tells a story.
That story begins with the simple-enough task of taking a dog for a walk on the beach:
I started Early – Took my Dog –
And visited the Sea –
But this early-morning stroll is anything but ordinary. Though Dickinson, indeed, was known to walk her dog, Carlo, on the grounds of her house, they never ventured as far as the ocean. Having never seen it, Dickinson must imagine the sea, and she transforms it through metaphor into something much more familiar to her: a house, complete with a “Basement” and an attic (“the Upper Floor”).
As if paying a social call, she’s greeted not at the door, but at the shore—by mermaids and frigates (square-rigged ships of the 18th and early 19th centuries), which hold out their “Hempen Hands” (their ropes) to her as though she were a shipwrecked mouse scurrying between the ship’s deck and the dock, with the possibility of escape:
The Mermaids in the Basement
Came out to look at me –
And Frigates – in the Upper Floor
Extended Hempen Hands –
Presuming Me to be a Mouse –
Aground – opon the Sands –
In Dickinson’s imagination, the sea becomes a magical place, and the poem, filled with friendly, unthreatening creatures, is like a nursery rhyme. That comforting sense of simplicity is heightened by her unique syntax and punctuation, filled with dashes and unusual capitalization. Each dash demands that we pause for a moment between the capitalized words, emphasizing the rhythmic and lyrical qualities of the poem. Much as the full “stops” of a telegram charge every subsequent line, Dickinson’s dashes slow us down and make every inventive detail and carefully chosen image seem all the more deliberate. The effect lulls us, as waves do, and also forces us to feel the drama of the poem’s language.
But all is not as it seems. In the third stanza, we see a literal turning of the tide. The waves begin to take on a menacing tone:
But no Man moved Me – till the Tide
Went past my simple Shoe –
And past my Apron – and my Belt
And past my Boddice – too –
The advancing water threatens to drown the speaker as it rises dramatically, phrase by phrase, past her chest. Taking on the characteristics of a man, the ocean becomes volatile and voracious, threatening to devour her:
And made as He would eat me up –
As wholly as a Dew
Opon a Dandelion’s Sleeve –
“And then—I started—too,” the speaker says, repeating a crucial verb from the poem’s first stanza. In the poem’s first line, “started” implies “starting a journey.” Repeated here, it suggests she is “startled” by fright, retreating as the tide continues to pursue her:
And He – He followed – close behind –
I felt His Silver Heel
Opon my Ancle – Then My Shoes
Would overflow with Pearl –
The speaker who so calmly “visited” the sea with her canine companion at the start of the poem now flees from it, with the sea (still a “He”) running “close behind,” lapping at her feet. As though he is trying to consume her, his “Silver Heel” touches her ankle. She pauses to imagine what might happen if they truly become one: “Then my Shoes / Would overflow with Pearl” (the ocean’s bubbly, white-washed surf). Though she’s obviously threatened by the possibility of consummation here, there’s beauty in it, too: the way pearls are beautiful, once they’ve been released from their shells.
But her dream of being subsumed by the sea is interrupted by the inescapable reality of the town, a place so “solid” that her imagined Poseidon must concede (and recede) back to his ocean floor:
Until We met the Solid Town –
No One He seemed to know –
And bowing – with a Mighty look –
At me – The Sea withdrew –
The use of the pronoun “we” in this final stanza reiterates that the speaker and the sea are indeed united for a moment, and then separated at last. Our final sight of the sea is as a “bowing” gentleman whose “Mighty look / At me” (a lowercase “me” that contrasts with the capitalized “Me” in the third stanza) leaves her feeling a tangible sense of loss.
Invited, awed, and ultimately cowed by her imagined experience, Dickinson’s speaker undergoes a true sea change in her perception. For someone who could only imagine it, the ocean, which on the surface may seem serene, comes to represent something decidedly more sinister. Dickinson’s vision portrays the sea as a place that’s both welcoming and wary, as the imagination itself can be for many writers and readers.
Firmament III (2009) est un filet tridimensionnel irrégulier entourant un vide en forme humaine environ dix fois grandeur nature. L’oeuvre captera la lumière en suivant l’évolution des saisons et sera une invitation constante pour le visiteur à considérer sa place dans l'ordre des choses.
Selon les mots de l'artiste: « Cette exposition interroge l’ancrage du corps humain à l'architecture et examine la place du corps humain dans le cadre plus large des choses et des mondes. Tous les travaux sont basés sur la bulle-matrice, un hasard, mais une géométrie existant constamment dans la nature, qui construit également la syntaxe structurelle de Firmament III. »
Thanks in advance for your visit and comment!
Photography should be considered as a language which means that its grammar and its syntax have to be learnt before the medium can be fully exploited by the photographer.
~ Paul Hill
〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰〰
● Non-HDR-processed / Non-GND-filtered
● Black Card Technique 黑卡作品
Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath 'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual. This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting. In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset. Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'. This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant Tali Tamir August 2010
A company of Veyman Genesis frames for Mobile Frame Zero.
Equipped systems L to R:
Y, B, G8, SSRx3
RaRa, Y, Y, B
RdRd, Y, B, G
RdRd, Y, B, G
Systems: M2a assault rifle (Rd), A22b shoulder-integrated mortar “thumper” (Ra), S7 forcefield buckler (B), Mk5 comm’s pack (Y), Orbital uplink (Y), J7 jump pack, R2a single-use rockets (SSR)
Syntax Error.
Lauren very kindly offered to help again on tonight's shot so I immediately reached for my diffusion sheet as I haven't done one with her for a while. I also successfully hunted down Riley's old coat with the funky lining which had escaped my clutches for a couple of months. Happy days.
1 x girlfriend behind said diffusion sheet then 1 x pop of the beauty dish from directly above. Liberal wafting of the black fibers from LP Brushes gelled orange, quick sweep of my star image played on the dlw from top to bottom then a lens and tripod swap to my Nikon 20mm at closest focus for the coat lining. Lit generously with a bluish gelled torch from all angles.
That's 159 shots in and well past the point of no return.
Happy days.
Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath
'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual.
This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting.
In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset.
Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'.
This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant
Tali Tamir
This was not an apparition.
It was an enforcement.
The building did not witness the object; the object revised the building.
Concrete forgot its vocation.
Windows learned to look away.
A polyhedron of refusal
was inserted into the street
like a clause no city voted for,
wrapped in a halo of industrial vapor; not smoke, but residual syntax
left behind by a calculation too old
to remember its author.
The tree stands frozen,
a biological witness under audit,
its branches raised not in prayer
but in compliance.
Electric light fractures the dusk
into juridical segments.
Shadow becomes procedural.
Night is no longer a time; it is a protocol.
This object does not float.
It is held
by a law that broke itself
to remain intact.
Inside it, there is no core.
Only stacked permissions,
nested negations,
and a silence trained to respond
only when interrogated by force.
This is not technology.
This is myth after exhaustion,
reassembled with screws, seals,
and unmarked surfaces.
The halo is not sacred.
It is a containment ring
for something that once tried
to be a future.
Here, ritual is automated.
Incantations are executed
by infrastructure.
Faith is replaced
by structural inevitability.
And the city does not collapse; it adjusts.
That is the true horror.
Because nothing is destroyed.
Everything is amended.
In the breathless hush between dusk and collapse,
the structure hums; an echo without a throat.
Its edges dream of origins unspoken,
each plane a psalm to forgotten symmetry.
Through mist and memory, it levitates,
a wound carved from the syntax of silence.
The forest listens; unseeing, devout; as the dark sings back to its maker.
A company of Veyman Genesis frames for Mobile Frame Zero.
Equipped systems L to R:
Y, B, G8, SSRx3
RaRa, Y, Y, B
RdRd, Y, B, G
RdRd, Y, B, G
Systems: M2a assault rifle (Rd), A22b shoulder-integrated mortar “thumper” (Ra), S7 forcefield buckler (B), Mk5 comm’s pack (Y), Orbital uplink (Y), J7 jump pack, R2a single-use rockets (SSR)
Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath 'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual. This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting. In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset. Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'. This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant Tali Tamir August 2010
My tribute build of my favorite SHIP from SHIPtember 2013, Jacob Unterreiner's Phoenix
Special thanks to dark_syntax for the suggestions on the connections for the side "wings".
Chairil Anwar, an Indonesian poet who I consider as my art teacher in expressing my sense of a media art. I like his writing style that seems wild. He is Indonesian he is called a bitch in his work.
I made a black and white drawing with a pencil on A3 paper
===================================
Chairil Anwar (26 July 1922 – 28 April 1949) was an Indonesian poet and member of the "1945 Generation" of writers. He is estimated to have written 96 works, including 70 individual poems.
Anwar was born and raised in Medan, North Sumatra, before moving to Batavia with his mother in 1940, where he began to enter the local literary circles. After publishing his first poem in 1942, Anwar continued to write. However, his poems were at times censored by the Japanese, then occupying Indonesia. Living rebelliously, Anwar wrote extensively, often about death. He died in Jakarta of an unknown illness.
His work dealt with various themes, including death, individualism, and existentialism, and were often multi-interpretable. Drawing influence from foreign poets, Anwar used everyday language and new syntax to write his poetry, which has been noted as aiding the development of the Indonesian language. His poems were often constructed irregularly, but with individual patterns.
Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath
'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual.
This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting.
In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset.
Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'.
This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant
Tali Tamir
We got lost on our way to a place which we did not know... Or should I say, we wanted to go somewhere, we did not know where we wanted to go, but certainly the place where we ended up was not the place we wanted to see.
Well, I guess I should have revised basic logical thinking rules and syntax right now:)
Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath
'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual.
This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting.
In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset.
Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'.
This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant
Tali Tamir
Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath
'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual.
This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting.
In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset.
Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'.
This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant
Tali Tamir
Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath
'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual.
This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting.
In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset.
Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'.
This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant
Tali Tamir
Mirit Ben Nun: Shortness of breath 'Shortness of breath' is not only a sign of physical weakness, it is a metaphor for a mental state of strong desire that knows no repletion; more and more, an unbearable glut, without repose. Mirit Ben Nun's type of work on the other hand requires an abundance of patience. This is a Sisyphean work (requiring hard labor) of marking lines and dots, filling every empty millimeter with brilliant blots. Therefore we are facing a paradox or a logical conflict. A patient and effortful work that stems from an urgent need to cover and fill, to adorn and coat. Her craft of layering reaches a state of a continuous ceremonial ritual. This ritual digests every object into itself - useful or discarded -- available and ordinary or rare and exceptional -- they submit and devote to the overlay work. Mirit BN gathers scrap off the streets -- cardboard rolls of fabric, assortments of wooden boards and pieces, plates and planks -- and constructs a new link, her own syntax, which she alone is fully responsible for. The new combination -- a type of a sculptural construction -- goes through a process of patching by the act of painting. In fact Mirit regards her three dimensional objects as a platform for painting, with a uniform continuity, even if it has obstacles, mounds and valleys. These objects beg her to paint, to lay down colors, to set in motion an intricate weave of abstract patterns that at times finds itself wandering the contours of human images and sometimes -- not. In those cases what is left is the monotonous activity of running the patterns, inch by inch, till their absolute coverage, till a short and passing instant of respite and than on again to a new onset. Next to this assembly of garbage and it's recycling into 'painted sculptures' Mirit offers a surprising reunion between her illustrated objects and so called cheap African sculpture; popular artifacts or articles that are classified in the standard culture as 'primitive'. This combination emphasizes the difference between her individualistic performance and the collective creation which is translated into cultural clichés. The wood carved image creates a moment of peace within the crowded bustle; an introverted image, without repetitiveness and reverberation. This meeting of strangers testifies that Mirit' work could not be labeled under the ´outsiders art´ category. She is a one woman school who is compelled to do the art work she picked out to perform. Therefore she isn't creating ´an image´ such as the carved wooden statues, but she produces breathless ´emotional jam' whose highest values are color, motion, beauty and plenitude. May it never lack, neither diluted, nor dull for even an instant Tali Tamir August 2010