Artist

Edwin Georgi (1896 - 1964)

Circa 1948?

 

Read More about Edwin Georgi at the end of the Algonquin Roundtable recount..

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“We were telling stories, trying to guess if the tale told was fact or fiction. M… came up with this story, chilling in the way it was so wretchedly confessed to us. Most of us thought it was fact, but didn’t really want to believe it.

 

(read fact or fiction? At the end of the background section)

 

BACKGROUND

  

“Algonquin Round Table writers, a group of town wits who had converged on New York in the late 1910s. From their positions as columnists, essayists, and drama critics, this "all-star literary vaudeville," as Edmund Wilson called them, nourished a light, sharp, mocking tone aimed at well-known personalities, among whom they counted themselves. Wartime friends Franklin P. Adams, Harold Ross, Heywood Broun, and Alexander Woollcott were among the bantering quipsters who began meeting for daily lunches at the Algonquin Hotel. With so many clever wordsmiths, this self-named "vicious circle" soon became famous for its ingenious puns, quips, and insults appearing immediately in print in someone's column.”

 

The Algonquin Round Table was a celebrated group of New York City writers, critics, actors and wits. Gathering initially as part of a practical joke, members of "The Vicious Circle", as they dubbed themselves, met for lunch each day at the Algonquin Hotel from 1919 until roughly 1929. At these luncheons they engaged in wisecracks, wordplay and witticisms that, through the newspaper columns of Round Table members, were disseminated across the country.

 

"Their form of social media was just that: social. Imagine having the time every day to break for a couple hours to have lunch with your funny, intelligent friends? They didn’t post witty replies on Facebook. They said them face-to-face, such as the time Dorothy Parker was asked to use the word “horticulture” in a sentence: “You can lead a horticulture but you can’t make her think.” Was her quick response.

  

Daily association with each other, both at the luncheons and outside of them, inspired members of the Circle to collaborate creatively. The entire group worked together successfully only once, however, to create a revue called No Sirree! which helped launch a Hollywood career for Round Tabler Robert Benchley.

  

In its ten years of association, the Round Table and a number of its members acquired national reputations both for their contributions to literature and for their sparkling wit. Although some of their contemporaries, and later in life even some of its members, disparaged the group, its reputation has endured long after its dissolution.

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An elderly lady known to one of us was from the States, was visited with quite often before she passed on. She was a school chum of Tallulah and related this Roundtable tale told to her.

 

We would be quite interested to learn more of the story and possibly about the incident retold below. If anyone is aware of an occurrence similar to this one in or even outside of Pennsylvania please feel free to tell us about it.

 

Fact or Fiction?

 

As Related to Emily over afternoon Tea one spring day……..

 

“We were playing a game, telling each other stories, and then trying to guess if the story was fact or fiction. Darling Harpo had suggested playing it after the reaction he had received for mischievously calling out a distraught Bea on the facts for a bit of society gossip she had been relating….”

  

“ We gone midway round the circle, and When challenged, M… came up with this story, chilling in the way it was so wretchedly confessed to us. Most of us thought it was fact, but didn’t really want to believe it had occurred. “

  

“I give the story as best I can through memory, only ever hearing it the one time years ago now. I believe I have captured its’ essence, but I could never in words captured the tortured look, or trembling manner that was shown when it was told before the group. All I can say is, either way; it was a masterful performance….”

 

The Confession ( story):

 

M lit a cigarette, and after sending a few wisps of smoke up to dance upon the ceiling, began the tale…

 

“I have done may things in my life I have later regretted, but this one, in particular, I have never told a living soul until now….” Drawing a deep breath, the story was continued.

  

“I have always had a curious streak to observe people’s reactions when in various situations. To get a better grasp of how my characters should act. It greatly piqued me to watch, without being seen, a person’s true emotions coming into play. Ralph Waldo Emerson once famously quoted that “ People do not seem to realize that their opinion of the world is also a confession of character” ... and that intriguing thought was what originally sent me on my quest..

  

Sometimes I was the protagonist behind the scenes whom, unbeknownst to the victims, had set them up. Sometimes I just followed and watched their behavior. I never intended for anyone to get hurt, emotionally or physically. But sometimes they did! Then I would solace my conscience by telling it that I was only doing it to improve upon my craft. But, then this one time, I probably did go a little bit too far….”

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

 

Sends a few more puffs of his cigarette wafting in smoky curls upwards as if in thought on how to actually begin…

 

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

“As a young man I would attend all different sorts of functions from all different levels of society to come up with ideas. I ran the gauntlet, from cock fights, hobo’s gathering around a campfire, to a wedding reception worthy of the Rockefellers. I noticed that I felt more at home with the hobos, than the fat cats. A condition, I am sure, caused by some flaw in my character. “

  

“But this instance, the function I encountered definitely belonged to the latter, Rockefeller fat cat , set.

  

The event, I soon learned, was the Homecoming of a small private College in a wealthy Pennsylvania community. Not my Alma Mater, but just a place I happened to be passing through which I had stopped whilst traveling home. “

  

“That there was a function going on in that little place was not hard to miss; the attendees were pouring out onto the streets from all sorts of establishments, and into others, including the bar I was holed up in. After a while I noticed a change in dress of the revelers costumes. School blazers and sensible dresses began to be replaced by tuxes and swishing satin gowns and colourful frocks. Their adornments also changed, from school ties to bow ties, Boaters (straw hats) to top hats for the men: Gold jewelry was replaced by sparkling necklaces and rings upon gloved hands for the ladies.”

  

“Another change was, that by then, the lot of them was pretty much plastered, but then, so was I!”

  

“ Finally I was flushed out of my hiding spot , and went for a walk outside to escape the noisy crowd.

  

I started to circle the upper portion of a large rural park that ran next to my late hiding spot. As I strolled, I noticed a man with a heavy coat and cap, rather sinisterly watching the crowd, standing against a tree just up ahead of me. When he saw me coming towards him, he turned down a path leading into the shadowy depths of the woods. I watched him go down for a minute, and observed that it led down to a small valley, where in the middle, surrounded by trees, stood a quite deserted football field. The path less traveled tonight, I thought to myself.

  

I kept to the path well-travelled however, and soon after turning a corner, came upon a young couple snogging on a bench. I stopped to watch, my mind racing with a mixture of drink inspired contemplations upon the little scene before me! “

  

“She was dolled up like a picture actress. Wearing a slithery glossy red gown that shined in the gas lamps pooling light, with matching gloves and a shimmering gold purse, she was a breathing Pygmalion . The jewels she was adorned with, rhinestones, I assumed, glittered happily as she moved. He was in a tux, an Errol Flynn moustache and gold watch chain and fob at his waist. They had no idea anyone was near them! Of course, Then, my cursed foot gave me away all too soon, as it stepped upon a twig, snapping it loudly, calling the couples attention to my peeping. Seeing me they got up and walked past me, snooty noses up in the air. She made a rude noise that would have better fitted an old mare in a barn. Well pardon my eyes I though, stinging from the obvious smite upon my character, which I always had held in high regard. Why dress in that manner and think no one deserves to take notice unless they meet with your approval? The princess was obviously not amused…”

  

“ I watched with disdain, and then , still transfixed, followed at a discreet distance as they walked back the way I had come. For some reason I was mesmerized by the pair of snobs, watching as they moved, her red gown swishing and swirling like a red waterfall upon the paved stones. They were holding closely onto one another, once again totally oblivious to their surroundings. There was a story there, if only…. “

  

“They stopped, and I went into the shadow of a tree. Looking back up the path they had come, I thought they may have seen my shadow. For they then looking again to each other, she murmured something and they turned down the very path, the path less travelled, that the heavy coated man had slinked away down. I felt maybe I should have run up and cautioned them against taking that path, but I was still stung by their rude reaction… Besides, I was rather curious to see if anything would happen.

  

In for pence, in for a pound I remember repeating to myself, as I discreetly continued my stalk.”

  

“I went into the shadows, seeing a large set of rocks beside the path I climbed up, getting a view of the path winding down into the small valley. I was just above a gas lamp that lit the path as it reached the valley floor below. The lamps lite effectively shadowed the rock whence I was perched. I could see the pair walking in and out of the shadows of the trees. Just as they reached the circle of light below me they stopped and embraced. I watched, totally unabashed.

  

Then, as I grew bored, or maybe my drink induced fog was started to clear my mind back to reality, I slowly started to make an exit stage right , when a shadow detached itself from a tree directly below me. I stayed mute and froze in my tracks, watching the event I knew was going to occur, began to unfold. The man’s shadowy figure approached the oblivious couple carefully, I could see his head jerking about making sure that the couple was alone, and unprotected. Picking up a chunk of wood he entered the circle of light, which now formed a small stage where a tragedy worthy of Shakespeare was most likely about to unfold!”

  

“I watched as the startled lovers became aware and tried to stare down the newcomer.

  

Now in the light, I could see He had shed his coat and gained a mask, but it was definitely the same sinister man I had seen earlier, obviously up to no good. The Errol Flynn wannabe put the girl behind him in defense, the masked man merely raised branch and whacked him on the side of his head, it broke with a sickening crunch, and her gallant defender went down like a sack of cement.

  

The sinister figure then turned his attention to the now helpless damsel in distress. Raising a cupped hand up he said something in a raspy voice that startled her. Apparently he was asking for her jewels, and the horror struck damsel had arrogantly not yet realized she was being mugged. The ladies long earrings shimmering as she shook her head no in response. The rings on her gloved fingers flashed as her hand went to her throat as she clearly cried out,” not my necklace”, in a hapless act of defiance. In my mind came a picture of a small kitten trying to defy a snarling wolf. She threw the gold purse at him, but he merely caught it, and placed it in his pocket. I remember feeling strangely detached, It may have been shock, but I found myself watching without one ounce of regret. The only thought I could remember was her glittering necklace, maybe they had not been rhinestones, which meant that she actually was wealthy and probably had been looking down her snooty nose upon me, like she probably did her own servants !!.

  

Well than she obviously did not desire my help, I decided, like she had quite rudely not desired my looking at her earlier… and after all , in her world, servants should be standing quietly in the background, seen but not heard. So, I decided that I wasn’t going to help unless absolutely life or death. Let the little lamb be trimmed of her rich wool I said to myself. She did show spunk, I will admit, but that’s all it was, a show. She went limp as he reached up, grabbing her hand away, than began pulling of the rings as she stood mute with disbelief. The diamond bracelet was wrenched unceremoniously from her wrist. Dropping her hand, he pocketed her rings and bracelet. Than he once again went for her necklace, and she backed up, shaking her head, earrings again shimmering as the pair innocently bounced away from her long hair. Then I saw a flash of silver in his hand, and she fainted dead away at the sight of his ugly blade…”.

  

“The masked man knelt over to her fallen body. The shiny red gown had spilled around her on the ground, Laying about her inert svelte figure like a pool of red lava. Reaching down and in he claimed her necklace, grasping it up and away from her throat. He looked at it for a few seconds, letting it sparkle in the moon’s light like slivery falling rain.

  

Then squatting beside her, he pulled away her hair, and yanked her taunting earrings free. He methodically felt along her figure, missing nothing. Then he again produced the knife, slicing off the brooch from her gown’s sash.

  

He pulled off her red high heels and threw tem deep into the woods.

  

Then he left her and went over to the unconscious escort, the bloody limb next to him” in quick, precise fashion, ‘Errol’s’, watch chain and fob were pulled free and pocketed. Then he reached in and pulled out the unlucky devils pocket book. Then pulling off ‘Errol’s’ shoes they soon joined the ladies high heels.

  

Arising calmly, he slowly looked around as he stowed the stolen articles and his knife away. He spent a split second longer on the area I was hidden, causing a shiver to make itself felt! Then, removing the mask he walked to where his long coat lay, and reclaiming it, he continued serenely on his way down the path. I watched in heavy silence as he disappeared in the woods, only to reappear by the football field. It was then that I stole away back up the path, careful not to be seen.”

  

“And no, I did not give any cry of alarm, did not involve myself by seeking or giving the hapless couple aid. I simply turned and left. I came away with nothing, no ideas, no new feelings for a character, just a sour taste in my mouth and an upset stomach, which I soon tried to relieve by stopping in at the next drinking establishment I came across. Beer didn’t help, so I switched to Scotch…!”

  

“ About an hour later I heard a siren and sensed commotion outside the confides of my prison. I did not go out to investigate.”

  

“After a fit less night of unrestful sleep, I left the next morning, daring not to read a paper, or stop there for breakfast ( having a late tea later a few hours away , I put the place and its memories to my back. “

  

“Ashamedly I did not render any assistance those poor souls, and I admit what I what I did was criminal.. But then in my defense , they ………………….., ”

 

“Yes?”

  

“It was at this point that the confession was interrupted by the appearance of a messenger boy sent for M….. Who took his leave, with a wicked smile that seemed to convey relief that an outcome of the story would not have to be faced?

  

Obliviously loving the mystery it created by the timely appearance of the messenger.” He never could be persuaded to return to his story only smiling that wicked little smile.

  

So, the worse of it was we never knew… because of the messenger boy’s interruption, never to learn to our satisfaction if the story was true or not..”

  

“How we all did hate that!”

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There is some question as to the identity of M…. There are six members with M in their initial. It could have been a non-regular or even a nickname. If anyone else has heard of this tale, or could place a finger for us as to who M… may have been, we would welcome the enlightenment.

 

Charter members of the Round Table included:

Franklin Pierce Adams, columnist

Robert Benchley, humorist and actor

Heywood Broun, columnist and sportswriter (married to Ruth Hale)

Marc Connelly, playwright

Ruth Hale, freelance writer who worked for women's rights

George S. Kaufman, playwright and director

Dorothy Parker

“The cure for boredom is curiosity. There is no cure for curiosity.”

“If you want to know what God thinks of money, just look at the people he gave it to.”

“What fresh hell is this?”

Robert E. Sherwood, author and playwright

John Peter Toohey, publicist

Alexander Woollcott, critic and journalist

"The English have an extraordinary ability for flying into a great calm."

 

Membership was not official or fixed for so many others who moved in and out of the Circle. Some of these included:

Tallulah Bankhead, actress

Edna Ferber, author and playwright

Margalo Gillmore, actress

Jane Grant, journalist and feminist (married to Ross)

Beatrice Kaufman, editor and playwright (married to George S. Kaufman)

Margaret Leech, writer and historian

Neysa McMein, magazine illustrator

Harpo Marx, comedian and film star

Alice Duer Miller, writer

Donald Ogden Stewart, playwright and screenwriter

Frank Sullivan, journalist and humorist

Deems Taylor, composer

Estelle Winwood, actress

Peggy Wood, actress

 

Courtesy of Chatwick University Archives

  

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Edwin Georgi

(1896 - 1964)

A leader in the second wave of "pretty-girl" artists: more like pin-ups without actually being pin-ups. Largely self-taught, learning his way up in ad and art agencies. A pilot in WWI. Style ranged from simple, posteresque lines and colors to his more famous pointillist pieces with boldly directed light, a unique use of warm shadows, and sparkling colors. Ads for Webster Cigars, Woodbury, Ford Mercury, Crane paper, Yardley, The Italian Line. In-demand illustrator for Goldenbook Magazine, Fortune, Redbook, Woman's Home Companion, Cosmo, True, Esquire, Ladies' Home Journal,Saturday Evening Post, American Girl, Liberty.

 

Edwin Georgi was born in 1896 and died in 1964 at the age of 68. He was a pilot in WWI– though I was unable to gather details about his specific tour of duty. Upon returning from the war, he attended Princeton. Eventually he abandoned his education to pursue writing as a full time profession. He was very ambitious, but a turn of fate pushed him another way. He was hired on to write copy for an ad agency , but was persuaded by his employer that he would make a better painter than a writer. Thus his career in illustration began.

 

Remarkably, he was largely self-taught. He worked his way up the artistic food chain with experience at various ad groups and agencies. His work is known in several national publications; Cosmo, Esquire, Redbook, Ladies’ Home Journal, and The Saturday Evening Post.

 

Edwin’s style is striking. Very few artists exude the dynamic movement of color as he does. His paintings have a texture that is entirely unique– his staccato strokes seem akin to pointillism, and weave a mesh of breathtaking pallets . Most noir art is obsessed with light and shadow, but Edwin Georgi’s art oscillates betwixt hue and contrast.

  

I went on a short photo walk with some teens in Songkhla around the Oldtown. This woman was selling Chinese cakes. She took a break to ... sort leaves for ... ?

Amazing sharpness given the distance and the crop (it is just a speck otherwise), which was huge (as in 15% of the image). I was shooting darker Hummers with a high ISO (4000 - Nikon D810) when this predator appeared. Forgot to lower it. Hard to be slow and methodical when the earth moves. I do think the autofocus fine-tuning is dialed in after some hours of effort, though. Amazing you can see this creature's eye, from the distance it was shot from.

 

Red tailed hawk.

We're grazing on wild berries, the brothers and I and my

Lust for the sugary gems in a thicket north of town.

We kneel and bury our heads among the vines. The brothers

 

Are like two lost urchins, hungry and always foraging,

Philosophical about their abandonment in this world. We're

Having the same old argument about where the soul resides,

 

Wrestling it down to our level. Little Rabbi licks his

Purple lips. We test each berry between forefinger and thumb

For softness before we gentle it free, cautious to avoid thorns.

 

We bend close, unhurried, as methodical as heart surgeons and

Reluctant to sever the lifeline of the marginal berries which need

More sun. The ripe ones burst like aneurysms at the slightest

 

Touch. The soul is non material, I say, like wind filling a sail.

Curlytop spits his half chewed mash onto the ground. Souls are on

The bottom of your feet, he says. His mind is nimble for a nine

 

Year old. I've seen mine leave my body, Little Rabbi says, once

At the ballfield. I remember, too, a pickup game last summer.

He went down hard midway to second base for no good reason.

 

His eyes rolled up into whiteness. We all stopped breathing

For the duration, 10 or 15 seconds. A puff of silver light,

He says, rose through my forehead, I saw and felt it, then

 

Saw myself flat on my back, floating on the grass and wanting

To sink under all that green if I willed it, if I could

Keep rising, but then I felt a thud in my chest and pain

 

And somebody trying to pour warm cherry cola down my throat.

A bramble snags my wrist. It makes its point apparent. We

Go on eating, silent among the vagrant bees, our wine stained

 

Hands mauled by greed for what hangs just beyond our reach.

I don't like the sour ones, Curlytop says, spitting. Or those

Shriveled ones. The ones with little black, charred souls.

--Miguel deO

 

I was amazed to see how fast she worked to hog tie her quarry. Yet she seemed methodical and very thorough. It's not like the Huntsman was ever going to escape, even if he were still alive.

Forest, Drifting Fog. Yosemite Valley, California. March 1, 2014. © Copyright 2014 G Dan Mitchell - all rights reserved.

 

Winter evening fog drifts among forest trees, Yosemite National Park

 

Winter is a special time in Yosemite Valley, and during the first weekend of March it was special for all the usual reasons and a few others. The Yosemite Renaissance XXIX opening reception opening took place on Friday and the Range of Light Film Festival was going on all weekend. Not only did this provide opportunities to view beautiful interpretations of the Sierra and the park by a wide range of visual artists, but it also meant that the place was full of painters, sculptures, photographers, and film-makers, among whom were a good number of personal friends. It seemed like wherever I went I found people I knew. Many were doing their work, but there was a relaxed quality that led to plenty of sitting on rocks, looking at views, conversations, and even a few dinners.

 

But even without all of that, the Valley seems to me to be at almost its most attractive at this time of year. We arrived on a rainy late afternoon, with snow falling along the upper reaches of the Valley. Clouds and fog and mist were everywhere, blocking the light one moment and then moving to allow bits of light here and there to highlight ridges, trees, cliffs, and peaks. Even photographers who usually shoot somewhere else headed to familiar lookouts such as Tunnel View, and I found myself there more than once. For me, the primary attractions of that place at this time of year — in addition to running into friends and yakking it up — are the vignettes of bits of cloud-shrouded ridges and trees above and the frequent fogs floating through the forest on the Valley floor. So I put on a long lens and pointed the camera either up or down towards these subjects and watched the show. As I was photographing the fog drifting among trees down in the Valley, as in this photograph, I remarked to a nearby photographer friend that this subject forced me to toss out any attempt to work slowly and thoughtfully and methodically. The fog was inconstant motion among the trees and momentary compositions would coalesce in one or another part of the Valley below, only to disappear as quickly as they had appeared. In the time it takes to carefully frame and compose an image the momentary subject would simply disappear, either become completely obscured or else losing its magic as the fog thinned. Quick and instinctive work was and is the only thing that works here!

 

G Dan Mitchell is a California photographer and visual opportunist whose subjects include the Pacific coast, redwood forests, central California oak/grasslands, the Sierra Nevada, California deserts, urban landscapes, night photography, and more.

Blog | About | Flickr | Twitter | Facebook | Google+ | 500px.com | LinkedIn | Email

 

Text, photographs, and other media are © Copyright G Dan Mitchell (or others when indicated) and are not in the public domain and may not be used on websites, blogs, or in other media without advance permission from G Dan Mitchell.

This composite image, taken at a distance of 2.5 km, shows a typical crow flight style. The following image shows that in essentially windless conditions a crow can fly across the wide scene towards its roosting site, with definite purpose, in an amazingly straight path and nearly constant altitude and speed, without navigational instruments other than its biological senses. Each bird shots in the second picture are shown at constant time intervals, and because the spacing between each bird shots are essentially equal, it can be inferred the bird is moving at a relatively constant speed. In the third image, several crows are flying across the field of view with only a couple of birds making significant changes in their flight plan by dipping its altitude. Interestingly, all the birds in the latter picture are descending pretty well at the same rate. I like the apparent banding displayed by the birds-in-flight, although this may just be a coincidence and brought about by the small sampling size. It appears that the commutes to the roosting sites are not free-for-all routines, they are structured. These crow flight attributes are tough to discern and appreciate when live watching as our brains cannot interpret the details of all that movement. This is further complicated by crows taking collision avoidance paths or interacting with one another in midair. Once they get to their roosting location in large gatherings, all bets are off with respect to describing the flight of any individual as it becomes mostly erratic in crowded three-dimensional space without air traffic controllers. However, in the end they all gradually and somewhat methodically land safely on city’s treetops where they will spend the night roosting.

 

This caption should also be understood as an inevitably subjective interpretation as I did not see everything that happened.

 

The police arrest an elderly participant in the protest against the proscription of Palestine Action in London's Parliament Square on 6 September 2025. The protest included many people over the age of sixty. Many protesters chose to lie on the grass in a silent, passive act of civil disobedience.

 

The photograph hopefully captures the methodical police response to this quiet defiance. It reflects the core of the day's events: a cross-section of society risking arrest under terror laws to express their opposition to both the government's crackdown on freedom of speech and the ongoing genocide in Gaza.

 

+++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

Protest and the Price of Dissent: Palestine Action and the Criminalisation of Conscience

 

Parliament Square on Saturday, 6 September 2025 was a scene of quiet, almost solemn defiance. The air, usually thick with the noise of London traffic and crowds of tourists, was instead filled with a palpable tension, a shared gravity that emanated from the quiet determination of hundreds of protesters, many of them over 60 years old, some sitting on steps or stools and others lying on the grass.

 

They held not professionally printed banners, but handwritten cardboard signs, their messages stark against the historic grandeur of their surroundings. This was not a march of chants and slogans, but a silent vigil of civil disobedience, a deliberate and calculated act of defiance against the state.

 

On that day, my task was to photograph the protest against the proscription of the direct-action group Palestine Action. While not always agreeing entirely with the group’s methods, I could not help but be struck by the profound dedication etched on the faces of the individual protesters.

 

As they sat in silence, contemplating both the horrific gravity of the situation in Gaza and the enormity of the personal risk they were taking — courting arrest under terror laws for holding a simple placard — their expressions took on a quality not dissimilar to what war photographers once called the “thousand-yard stare.” It was a look of weary but deep and determined resolve, a silent testament to their readiness to face life-changing prosecution in the name of a principle.

 

This scene poses a profound and unsettling question for modern Britain. How did the United Kingdom, a nation that prides itself on its democratic traditions and the right to protest, arrive at a point where hundreds of its citizens — clergy, doctors, veterans, and the elderly — could be arrested under counter-terrorism legislation for an act of silent, peaceful protest?

 

The events of that September afternoon were the culmination of a complex and contentious series of developments, but their significance extends far beyond a single organisation or demonstration. The proscription of Palestine Action has become a critical juncture in the nation’s relationship with dissent, a test of the elasticity of free expression, and a stark examination of its obligations under international law in the face of Israel deliberately engineering a catastrophic humanitarian crisis in Gaza.

 

To understand what is at stake, one must unravel the threads that led to that moment: the identity of the movement, the state’s legal machinery of proscription, the confrontation in Parliament Square, and the political context that compelled so many to risk their liberty.

 

Direct Action and the State’s Response

 

Palestine Action, established in 2020, has never hidden its approach. Unlike traditional lobbying groups, it rejected appeals to political elites in favour of disrupting the physical infrastructure of complicity: factories producing parts for Israeli weapons systems, offices of arms manufacturers, and — eventually — military installations themselves.

 

Its tactics, while non-violent, were disruptive and confrontational. Red paint sprayed across buildings to symbolise blood, occupations that halted production, chains and locks on factory gates. For supporters, these were acts of conscience against a system enabling atrocities in Gaza. For the state, they were criminal disruptions of commerce.

 

That clash escalated steadily. In Oldham, a persistent campaign against Elbit Systems, a key manufacturer in the Israeli arms supply chain, culminated in the company abandoning its Ferranti site. Later actions targeted suppliers for F-35 fighter jets and other arms manufacturers. These were no random acts of mindless vandalism but part of a deliberate strategy: to impose costs high enough that complicity in Israel’s war effort would become unsustainable.

 

The decisive rupture came in June 2025, when activists infiltrated RAF Brize Norton, Britain’s largest airbase, and sprayed red paint into the engines of refuelling aircraft linked to operations over Gaza. For the activists, it was a desperate attempt to interrupt a supply chain of surveillance and logistical support to a state commiting genocide. For the government, it crossed a line: military assets had been attacked. Within days, the Home Secretary announced Palestine Action would be proscribed as a terrorist organisation.

 

Proscription and the Expansion of “Terrorism”

 

Here lies the heart of the controversy. The Terrorism Act 2000 defines terrorism with unusual breadth, encompassing not only threats to life but also “serious damage to property” carried out for political or ideological aims. In this capacious definition, breaking a factory window or disabling a machine can be legally assimilated to mass murder.

 

By invoking this law, the government placed Palestine Action on the same legal footing as al-Qaeda or ISIS. Supporting it — even symbolically — became a serious offence. Since July 2025, merely expressing support for the organization can carry a maximum prison sentence of 14 years.

 

This is based on Section 12 of the Terrorism Act 2000. The specific offense is "recklessly expressing support for a proscribed organisation". However, according to Section 13 of the Act, a lower-level offence for actions like displaying hand held placards in support of a proscribed group carries a maximum sentence of six months imprisonment or a fine of five thousand pounds or both.

 

Civil liberties groups and human rights bodies have denounced the proscription move as disproportionate. Their concern was not primarily whether Palestine Action’s tactics might violate existing criminal law. One might reasonably argue that they did unless they might sometimes be justified in the name of preventing a greater crime.

 

But reframing those actions as “terrorism” represented a dangerous category error. As many pointed out, terrorism has historically referred to violence against civilians. Expanding it to cover property damage risks draining the term of meaning. Worse, it arms the state with a stigma so powerful that it can delegitimise entire political positions without debate.

 

The implications go further. Proscription does not simply criminalise acts. It criminalises expressions of allegiance, conscience and even speech. To say “I support Palestine Action” is no longer an opinion but technically a serious crime. The state has moved from punishing deeds to punishing expressions of solidarity — a move with chilling consequences for democratic life.

 

Parliament Square: Civil Disobedience on Trial

 

It was this transformation that brought nearly 1,500 people into Parliament Square on 6 September. They knew what awaited them. Organisers announced in advance that protesters would hold signs reading: “I oppose genocide. I support Palestine Action.” In doing so, they openly declared their intent to break the law.

 

The crowd was strikingly diverse. Retired doctors, clergy, war veterans, even an 83-year-old Anglican priest. Disabled activists came in wheelchairs; descendants of Holocaust survivors stood beside young students. This was not a hardened cadre of militants but a cross-section of society, many of whom had never before faced arrest.

 

At precisely 1 pm, the protesters all sat or lay down silently, cardboard signs raised. There was no chanting, no aggression — only a quiet insistence that they would not accept the criminalisation of conscience.The police response was equally predictable. Hundreds of officers moved systematically through the crowd, arresting anyone displaying a sign.

 

By the end of the day, nearly 900 people were detained under counter-terrorism law. It was one of the largest mass arrests in modern British history. Official statements later alleged police were met with violence — officers punched, spat on, objects thrown. Yet independent observers, including Amnesty International, contradicted this. They reported a peaceful assembly disrupted by aggressive policing: batons drawn, protesters shoved, some bloodied.

 

www.amnesty.org/zh-hans/documents/eur45/0273/2025/en/

 

Video footage supported at least some of Amnesty's report.

 

www.youtube.com/watch?v=mZQGFrqCf5U&t=1283s

 

The two narratives were irreconcilable, but only one carried the weight and authority of the state.The entire event unfolded as political theatre. The government proscribed a group, thereby creating a new crime. Protesters, convinced the law was unjust, announced their intent to commit that crime peacefully.

 

The police, forewarned, staged a vast operation. Each side acted out its script. The spectacle allowed the state to present itself as defending order against extremism — while in reality silencing dissent.

 

The Humanitarian Context: Why Protesters Risked All

 

To see the Parliament Square protest as a parochial dispute over free speech is to miss its driving force. The demonstrators were not there merely to defend abstract principles. They were responding to what they, and a growing body of international experts, describe as a genocide in Gaza.

 

By September 2025, Gaza had descended into almost total collapse. Over 63,000 Palestinians had been killed, the majority of them women and children. More than 150,000 had been injured, many maimed for life. Entire neighbourhoods had been flattened. Famine was confirmed in August, with Israel continuing to impose and even tighten deliberate restrictions on food, water, and fuel, a strategy condemned by human rights groups as a major war crime. Hospitals lay in ruins. Ninety percent of the population had been displaced.It is in this context that the term genocide has been applied.

 

Legal scholars point not only to mass killings but also to the deliberate infliction of life-destroying conditions, accompanied by rhetoric from Israeli officials dehumanising Palestinians as “human animals.” In September 2025, the International Association of Genocide Scholars declared that Israel’s actions met the legal definition of genocide.

 

www.bbc.co.uk/news/articles/cde3eyzdr63o

 

Major NGOs, UN experts, and even Israeli human rights groups such as B’Tselem echoed that conclusion.For the protesters, then, the question was not abstract but immediate: faced with what they saw as a genocide, could they in good conscience remain silent while their own government criminalised resistance to it? Their answer was to risk arrest, their placards making the moral connection explicit: opposing genocide meant supporting those who sought to stop it.

 

The Price of Dissent

 

The mass arrests in Parliament Square were not an isolated incident of law enforcement. They were the product of a broader trajectory: escalating tactics by a direct-action movement, a humanitarian catastrophe abroad, and a government determined to suppress dissent at home through the bluntest of instruments.

 

The official line insists that Palestine Action’s campaign constituted terrorism and thus warranted proscription. On this view, the arrests were simple enforcement of the law. Yet this account obscures the deeper reality: a precedent in which the state redefined non-lethal protest as terrorism, shifting from punishing actions to criminalising expressions of solidarity.The cost is profound. Once speech and conscience themselves become suspect, dissent is no longer tolerated but pathologised.

 

The chilling effect is already evident: individuals weigh not just whether to join a protest, but whether uttering support might expose them to years in prison. Terror laws, originally justified as a shield against mass violence, are recast as tools of political management.

 

The protesters understood this. That “thousand-yard stare” captured in their faces was not only the weight of potential arrest, but the knowledge of Gaza’s devastation, the famine and rubble, the deaths mounting daily. It was also the recognition that their own government had chosen to silence them rather than address its complicity.

In a functioning democracy, the question is not why citizens risk arrest for holding a handwritten cardboard sign. It is why a state finds it necessary to treat that act as a terror offence. The answer reveals a narrowing of democratic space, where conscience itself is deemed subversive. And that narrowing, history teaches, carries consequences not just for those arrested, but for the society that allows it.

Thanks all for the views, faves and comments!

 

American White Pelican, White Rock Lake's Sunset Bay, Dallas, TX.

 

www.allaboutbirds.org:

 

One of the largest North American birds, the American White Pelican is majestic in the air. The birds soar with incredible steadiness on broad, white-and-black wings. Their large heads and huge, heavy bills give them a prehistoric look. On the water they dip their pouched bills to scoop up fish, or tip-up like an oversized dabbling duck. Sometimes, groups of pelicans work together to herd fish into the shallows for easy feeding. Look for them on inland lakes in summer and near coastlines in winter.

 

Size & Shape

A huge waterbird with very broad wings, a long neck, and a massive bill that gives the head a unique, long shape. They have thick bodies, short legs, and short, square tails. During the breeding season, adults grow an unusual projection or horn on the upper mandible near the tip of the bill.

 

Color Pattern

Adult American White Pelicans are snowy white with black flight feathers visible only when the wings are spread. A small patch of ornamental feathers on the chest can become yellow in spring. The bill and legs are yellow-orange. Immatures are mostly white as well, but the head, neck, and back are variably dusky.

 

Behavior

American White Pelicans feed from the water’s surface, dipping their beaks into the water to catch fish and other aquatic organisms. They often upend, like a very large dabbling duck, in this process. They do not plunge-dive the way Brown Pelicans do. They are superb soarers (they are among the heaviest flying birds in the world) and often travel long distances in large flocks by soaring. When flapping, their wingbeats are slow and methodical.

 

Habitat

American White Pelicans typically breed on islands in shallow wetlands in the interior of the continent. They spend winters mainly on coastal waters, bays, and estuaries, or a little distance inland.

Telaga Biru/The Blue Lake (1,575m a.s.l.)

Location: 1.5 km/15 minute walk from Cibodas Gate (Gunung Gede Pangrango National Park). The name derives from the presence of blue-green algae which colour the water.

 

The observant visitor might weel be rewarded with views of the white-crowned forktail (Enicurus leschenaulti), a striking pied bird which methodically searches streams and lake margins for food. The surrounding area is transitional from sub-montane to montane vegetation.

Because of the popularity of the Marvel movies, Black Widows are as thick on the ground at a con as pigeons at a public park. These days my eyes are drawn by a great performance, like this one.

 

Wow, does she inhabit the character well! This is clearly a former Russian spy who has at least eleven identities, backstories, and sets of papers ready to go at any moment.

 

"You're the first photographer to ask me to zip my suit UP a little!" she said, in good humor.

 

Three reasons for that: 1) I wanted to draw more attention to her face and her hair and the contrast between her red hair and the black of the fabric; 2) When you're up close like this, a little cleavage becomes a LOT of cleavage, I think; and 3) I'm neither experienced nor confident about taking "sexy" photos.

 

There's a real skill to shooting those kinds of pics. Do it well, and it's truly art...even when a model is completely nude. If you do it without putting much thought into it, you create the impression that you're just thrilled to be standing this close to a good-looking man or woman.

 

It's on my "to-do" list because I'm encouraged to try every different kind of photography and learn as many skills as I can...and this certainly is a skill I don't have.

 

There's a complication when you're shooting a sexy pic at a con versus in a studio: how do you communicate your motives clearly?

 

Perhaps I should print up a card reading "I can see that you have chosen to highlight the more visibly-alluring attributes of this character. I would like to document your choice of artistic expression through my own favorite method of artistic expression, while maintaining an emphatic tone of respect and seriousness regarding both your craft and mine." I would read that to each cosplayer, like a cop methodically Mirandizing an arrestee.

www.phaselis.org/en/about/about-project

Phaselis Research

 

Phaselis

 

When compared with the previous period of research on the history of the city over the past quarter century it has undergone radical changes. While modern scientists follow the path of their predecessors in collecting data through systematic processes and methodically analysing them, they change the route whereby they approach the city as a context- and a process-oriented structure, having economic, social, cultural, political and environmental dimensions which come together at different levels.

 

This considerably more inclusive definition expands the discipline concerning the city’s historical research, which consists of archaeology, epigraphy, ancient history and the other ancillary sciences and it encourages scientists from the natural and health sciences to participate within these studies. This is because in the course of the exploration of an ancient settlement the study of both the environment and the ecological setting which make human life possible; together with health issues, such as diet and epidemics, form the context within which human beings live, and which are thereby as important as the human actors.

 

Within the context of the planned Phaselis Research, even certain knowledge such as the settlement’s appearing on the stage of history as a favorite break-point with its three natural harbours, it being famous for its roses, the frequent seismic upheavals at sea and on its shores and its citizens leaving their homes because of a devastating malaria epidemic suggest the necessity of the application of this multi-dimensional research methodology in order to understand more fully the historical adventure of this city.

 

By presenting this research project, we aim to implement and realize this multi-dimensional research method, which as yet lacks widespread application in the field in our country, however conceptually and practically with a multi-disciplinary research team consisting of both national and international scientists, we intend to register systematically every kind of data/information regarding all contexts of the city employing modern methods and to present the results to the scientific world in the form of regular reports and monographic studies, thus forming a strong tie between past and future research.

 

Phaselis Territorium

 

The boundaries of the ancient city of Phaselis’ territorium are today within the administrative borders of the township of Tekirova, in Kemer District, determined from the archaeological, epigraphic and historical-geographical evidence, reaching the Gökdere valley to the north, continue on a line drawn from Üç Adalar to Mount Tahtalı to the south and extend along the Çandır valley to the west.

 

Phaselis was discovered in 1811-1812 by Captain F. Beaufort during his work of charting the southern coastline of Asia Minor for the British Royal Navy. Beaufort drew Phaselis’ plan and in the course of conducting his cartographic studies, he saw the word Φασηλίτης ethnikon on the inscriptions and consequently identified these ruins with Phaselis. C. R. Cockerell, the English architect, archaeologist and author came to Phaselis by ship and met Beaufort there. Then in 1838 C. Fellows, the English archaeologist visited the city. He found the fragments of the dedicatory inscription over the monumental gate built in honour of the Emperor Hadrianus and mistakenly thought the Imperial Period main street was the stadion due to the seats-steps on either side of the street. In 1842 Lt. T. A. B. Spratt, the English hydrographer and geographer, and the Rev. E. Forbes, the naturalist came to Phaselis via the Olympos and Khimaira routes. Due to the fact that they all came by sea and they only stayed for a short time, their descriptions of the topography inland are without detailed and there are serious errors in orientation.

 

PhaselisThose researchers who visited Phaselis between the late 19th and the early 20th centuries concentrated primarily upon the discovery of inscriptions. In 1881-1882 while the Austrian archaeologist and the epigraphist O. Benndorf, the founder of the Austrian Archaeological Institute, and his team were conducting research in southwestern Asia Minor, they examined Phaselis. In the winter of 1883 and 1884 F. von Luschan from the Austrian team took the first photographs which provide information concerning the regional features of Phaselis’ shoreline. In the same year the French scientist V. Bérard also visited Phaselis. In 1892 the members of the Austrian research team, O. Benndorf, E. Kalinka and their colleagues continued their architectural, archaeological and epigraphical studies in Phaselis. In 1904 they were followed by D. G. Hogarth, R. Norton and A. W. van Buren from the British research team. In 1908 the Austrian classical philologist E. Kalinka visited the settlement again, collected epigraphic documents and conducted research on the history of city (published in TAM II in 1944). The Italian researchers R. Paribeni and P. Romanelli visited Phaselis in1913 and C. Anti in 1921. Anti returned to Antalya overland and in consequence discovered several epigraphs and the ruins of structures within the territorium of Phaselis.

 

Further archaeological, epigraphical and historical-geographical studies of Phaselis were conducted by the English researchers F. M. Stark and G. Bean, who came to the region after World War II. In 1968 H. Schläger, the German architect and underwater archaeologist began exploring the topographical and architectural structures of Phaselis’s harbours. After Schläger’s death in 1969, the research was conducted under the leadership of the archaeologist J. Schäfer in 1970. H. Schläger, J. Schäfer and their colleagues obtained important data concerning the architecture and history of Phaselis through the surface exploration of the city and its periphery. Following the excavations conducted along the main axial street of the city, in 1980 under the direction of Kayhan Dörtlük, the then Director of the Antalya Museum and between 1981-1985 under the leadership of the archaeologist Cevdet Bayburtluoğlu; underwater exploration was carried out in the South Harbour under the direction of Metin Pehlivaner, the then Director of the Antalya Museum.

  

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Phaselis

 

Entrance on the corner of River and Lake Streets.

 

Description

 

Council Rock is situated at the corner of Lake and River Streets within the Village of Cooperstown. It is a 1.25 acre site on the west bank of the mouth of the Susquehanna River. Stone steps lead from the street to the Lake.

 

Not only does the park offer a magnificent view of the lake, but it is also an important site in the history of Cooperstown [Council Rock and Clinton/Sullivan Expedition of August 9, 1779]. Its entrance is marked by two stone columns with Historical Markers and a large painted arrow which indicates true North.

---

The 1779 Sullivan Expedition, also known as the Sullivan-Clinton Expedition, or Sullivan Campaign was an extended systematic military campaign during the American Revolutionary War against Loyalists ("Tories") and the four Nations of the Haudenosaunee which had sided with the British. It has been described by some historians as a genocide due to the magnitude and totality of its violence towards and destruction of the Haudenosaunee.

 

The campaign ordered and organized by George Washington and his staff was conducted chiefly in the lands of the Iroquois Confederacy (also known as the Longhouse Confederacy) "taking the war home to the enemy to break their morale", and the expedition was largely successful in that goal as they destroyed more than 40 Iroquois villages and stores of winter crops, breaking the power of the six nations in New York all the way to the Great Lakes, as the terrified Indian families relocated to Canada seeking protection of the British. Today this area is the heartland of Upstate New York, and with the military power of the Iroquois vanquished, the events also opened up the vast Ohio Country, the Great Lakes regions, Western Pennsylvania, West Virginia, and Kentucky to post-war settlements.

 

Led by Major General John Sullivan and Brigadier General James Clinton, the expedition was conducted during the summer of 1779, beginning June 18 when the army marched from Easton, Pennsylvania, to October 3 when it abandoned Fort Sullivan, built at Tioga, to return to George Washington's main camp in New Jersey. While the campaign had only one major battle, at Newtown (since the tribes evacuated ahead of the large military force) along the Chemung River in western New York, the expedition severely damaged the Iroquois nations' economies by burning their crops, villages, and chattels, thus ruining the Iroquois technological infrastructure. With the Native Americans' shelter gone and food supplies destroyed, thereafter the strength of the Iroquois Confederacy was broken. The death toll from exposure and starvation dwarfed the casualties received in the Battle of Newtown, in which about 1,000 Iroquois and Loyalists were decisively defeated by an army of 3,200 Continental soldiers.

 

Sullivan's army carried out a scorched earth campaign, methodically destroying at least forty Iroquois villages throughout the Finger Lakes region of western New York, to put an end to Iroquois and Loyalist attacks against American settlements as had occurred the previous year of 1778, such as the Cobleskill, Wyoming Valley and Cherry Valley massacres. The survivors fled to British regions in Canada and the Niagara Falls and Buffalo areas. The devastation created great hardships for the thousands of Iroquois refugees who fled the region to shelter under British military protection outside Fort Niagara that winter, and many starved or froze to death, despite strenuous attempts by the British authorities to import food and provide shelter via their limited resources.

 

The Sullivan Expedition devastated the Iroquois crops and towns and left them dependent upon the mercy of the British for the harsh winter of 1779. With the Iroquois population decimated by disease and battle, the Indian morale never fully recovered, and the Iroquois thereafter mostly limited their incursions into the new United States to isolated hunting parties, the main populations having permanently migrated north of the border.

 

When the American Revolutionary War began, British officials as well as the colonial Continental Congress sought the allegiance (or at least the neutrality) of the influential Iroquois Confederacy. The Six Nations divided over what course to pursue. Most Mohawks, Cayugas, Onondagas, and Senecas chose to ally themselves with the British. But the Oneidas and Tuscaroras, thanks in part to the influence of Presbyterian missionary Samuel Kirkland, joined the American revolutionaries. For the Iroquois, the American Revolution became a civil war.

 

The Iroquois homeland lay on the frontier between the Province of Quebec and the provinces of New York and Pennsylvania. After a British army surrendered after the Battles of Saratoga in upstate New York in 1777, Loyalists and their Iroquois allies raided American Patriot settlements in the region, as well as the villages of American-allied Iroquois. Working out of Fort Niagara, men such as Loyalist commander Colonel John Butler, Sayenqueraghta, Mohawk military leader Joseph Brant, and Seneca chief Cornplanter led the British-Indian raids. Commander-in-chief General George Washington never allocated more than minimal Continental Army troops for the defense of the frontier and he told the frontier settlements to use local militia for their own defense.

 

On June 10, 1778, the Board of War of the Continental Congress concluded that a major Indian war was in the offing. Since a defensive war would prove to be inadequate the board called for a major expedition of 3,000 men against Fort Detroit and a similar thrust into Seneca country to punish the Iroquois. Congress designated Major General Horatio Gates to lead the campaign and appropriated funds for the campaign. In spite of these plans, the expedition did not occur until the following year.

 

On July 3, 1778, Loyalist commander Colonel Butler led his Rangers accompanied by a force of Senecas and Cayugas (led by Sayenqueraghta) in an attack on Pennsylvania's Wyoming Valley (a rebel granary and settlement along the Susquehanna River near Wilkes-Barre), practically annihilating 360 armed Patriot defenders lured out of their defenses at Forty Fort.

 

In September 1778, revenge for the Wyoming defeat was taken by American Colonel Thomas Hartley who, with 200 soldiers, burned nine to twelve Seneca, Delaware and Mingo villages along the Susquehanna River in northeast Pennsylvania, including Tioga and Chemung. At the same time, Butler's Rangers attacked German Flatts in the Mohawk Valley, destroying all the houses and fields in the area. Further American retaliation was soon taken by Continental Army units under William Butler (no relation to John Butler) and John Cantine, burning the substantial Indian villages at Unadilla and Onaquaga on the Susquehanna River.

 

On November 11, 1778, Loyalist Captain Walter Butler (the son of John Butler) led two companies of Butler's Rangers along with about 320 Iroquois led by Cornplanter, including 30 Mohawks led by Joseph Brant, on an assault at Cherry Valley in New York. While the fort was surrounded, Indians began to massacre civilians in the village, killing and scalping 16 soldiers and 32 civilians, mostly women and children, and taking 80 captive, half of whom were never returned. In vain, Brant, who was blamed for the attack, actually tried to stop the rampage. The town was plundered and destroyed.

 

The Cherry Valley Massacre convinced the American colonists that they needed to take action. In April 1779, American Colonel Van Schaick led an expedition of over 500 soldiers against the Onondaga, destroying several villages. When the British began to concentrate their military efforts on the southern colonies in 1779, Washington used the opportunity to launch a larger planned offensive towards Fort Niagara. His initial impulse was to assign the expedition to Major General Charles Lee, but he, Major General Philip Schuyler, and Major General Israel Putnam were all disregarded for various reasons. Washington first offered command of the expedition to Horatio Gates, the "Hero of Saratoga," but Gates turned down the offer, ostensibly for health reasons. Major General John Sullivan, fifth on the seniority list, was offered command on March 6, 1779, and accepted. Washington's orders to Sullivan made it clear that he wanted the Iroquois threat completely eliminated:

 

Orders of George Washington to General John Sullivan, at Head-Quarters (Wallace House, New Jersey) May 31, 1779

 

The Expedition you are appointed to command is to be directed against the hostile tribes of the Six Nations of Indians, with their associates and adherents. The immediate objects are the total destruction and devastation of their settlements, and the capture of as many prisoners of every age and sex as possible. It will be essential to ruin their crops now in the ground and prevent their planting more.

 

I would recommend, that some post in the center of the Indian Country, should be occupied with all expedition, with a sufficient quantity of provisions whence parties should be detached to lay waste all the settlements around, with instructions to do it in the most effectual manner, that the country may not be merely overrun, but destroyed.

 

But you will not by any means listen to any overture of peace before the total ruinment of their settlements is effected. Our future security will be in their inability to injure us and in the terror with which the severity of the chastisement they receive will inspire them.[5]

 

Washington instructed Gen. Sullivan and three brigades to march from Easton, Pennsylvania to the Susquehanna River in central Pennsylvania and to follow the river upstream to Tioga, now known as Athens, Pennsylvania. He ordered Gen. James Clinton to assemble a fourth brigade at Schenectady, New York, move westward up the Mohawk River Valley to Canajoharie, and cross overland to Otsego Lake as a staging point. When Sullivan so ordered, Clinton's New York Brigade was to march down the Susquehanna to meet Sullivan at Tioga, destroying all Indian villages on his route. Sullivan's army was to have totaled 15 regiments and 5,000 men, but his Pennsylvania brigade entered the campaign more than 750 men short, and promised enlistments never materialized. In addition, the third regiment of the brigade, the German Battalion, had shrunk by casualties, sickness, and desertion (the three-year term of enlistment of its soldiers had expired on June 27) to only 100 men, and was parceled out in 25-man companies as flank protection for the expedition. Armand's Legion was recalled by Washington to the Main Army before the campaign began. Because of these and other shortages, Sullivan's army, including two companies of local militia totaling only 70 men, never exceeded 4,000 troops.

 

The main army left Easton on June 18, marching 58 miles to an encampment on the Bullock farm in the Wyoming Valley, which it reached on June 23. There they awaited provisions and supplies that had not been sent forward, remaining in the Wyoming Valley until July 31. The army marched slowly, paced by both the mountainous terrain and the flatboats carrying the army's supplies up the Susquehanna, and arrived at Tioga on August 11. They began construction of a temporary fort at the confluence of the Chemung and Susquehanna Rivers they called Fort Sullivan.

 

Sullivan sent one of his guides, Lt. John Jenkins, who had been captured while surveying the area in November 1777, with a scouting party to reconnoiter Chemung. He reported that the village was active and unaware of his presence. Sullivan marched the greater part of the army all night over two high defiles and attacked out of a thick fog just after dawn only to find the town deserted. Brig. Gen. Edward Hand reported a small force fleeing towards Newtown and received permission to pursue. Despite flankers, he had gone only a mile when his advance guard was ambushed with six dead and nine wounded. The entire brigade assaulted but the ambushers escaped with minimal if any casualties. Sullivan's men spent the day burning the town and destroyed all of its grain and vegetable crops. During the afternoon the 1st New Hampshire Regiment of Poor's brigade was fired on, either from ambush or possibly by fire from other troops, inflicting another soldier killed and five wounded. Ambushes also occurred on August 15 and August 17, with combined casualties of two killed and two wounded. On August 23, the accidental discharge of a rifle in camp resulted in one captain killed and one man wounded.

 

After two-weeks' portage of supplies, Clinton's brigade set up camp on June 30 at the south end of Otsego Lake (now Cooperstown, New York), where he waited for orders that did not arrive until August 6. The next day he began his destructive march of 154 miles (248 km) to Tioga along the upper Susquehanna, taking all of his supplies with him in 250 bateaux. The actions at Chemung made Sullivan suspicious that the Iroquois might be trying to defeat in detail his split forces, and the next day he sent 1,084 picked men under Brig. Gen. Enoch Poor north to locate Clinton and escort him to Fort Sullivan. The entire army assembled on August 22.

 

On August 26, the combined army of approximately 3,200 men and 250 pack horse teamsters left Fort Sullivan, garrisoned by 300 troops taken from across the army and left behind under Col. Israel Shreve of the 2nd New Jersey Regiment. Marching slowly north into the Six Nations territory in central western New York, the campaign had only one major battle, the Battle of Newtown, fought on August 29. It was a complete victory for the Continental Army. Later a 25-man detachment of the Continental Army was ambushed, and all but five captured and killed at the Boyd and Parker ambush. On September 1 Captain John Combs died of an illness.

 

Sullivan's forces reached their deepest penetration at the Seneca town of Chenussio (also called Little Beard's town, Beardstown, Chinefee, Genesee, and Geneseo), near the present Cuylerville, New York, on September 15, inflicting total destruction on the Iroquois villages before returning to Fort Sullivan at the end of the month. Three days later the army abandoned the fort to return to Morristown, New Jersey, and go into winter quarters. By Sullivan's account, forty Iroquois villages were destroyed, including Catherine's Town, Goiogouen, Chonodote, and Kanadaseaga, along with all the crops and orchards of the Iroquois.

 

Appointed the British governor of Quebec in 1778, Frederick Haldimand, while kept informed of Sullivan's invasion by Butler and Fort Niagara, did not supply sufficient troops for his Iroquois allies' defense. Late in September, he dispatched a force of about 600 Loyalists and Iroquois, but by then the expedition had successfully ended.

 

Further west, a concurrent expedition was undertaken by Colonel Daniel Brodhead. Brodhead left Fort Pitt on August 14, 1779, with a contingent of 600 men, regulars of his 8th Pennsylvania Regiment and militia, marching up the Allegheny River into the Seneca and Munsee country of northwestern Pennsylvania and southwestern New York. Since most native warriors were away to confront Sullivan's army, Brodhead met little resistance and destroyed about 10 villages, including Conewango. Although initial plans called for Brodhead to eventually link up with Sullivan at Chenussio for an attack against Fort Niagara, Brodhead turned back after destroying villages near modern-day Salamanca, New York, never linking up with the main force. Washington's letters indicate that the cross-country trek east to the Finger Lakes region was considered too dangerous, limiting this smaller expedition to a raid north.

 

The final operation of the campaign occurred September 27. Sullivan sent a portion of Clinton's brigade directly back to winter quarters by way of Fort Stanwix, under Colonel Peter Gansevoort of the 3rd New York Regiment. Two days after leaving Stanwix, near their origination point of Schenectady, the detachment stopped at Teantontalago, the "Lower Mohawk Castle" (also known as Thienderego, Tionondorage and Tiononderoga) and carried out orders to arrest every male Mohawk. Gansevoort wrote "It is remarked that the Indians live much better than most of the Mohawk River farmers, their houses [being] very well furnished with all [the] necessary household utensils, great plenty of grain, several horses, cows, and wagons". The male population was incarcerated at Albany until 1780 and then released.

 

The action dispossessed the Mohawks of their homes. Local white settlers, homeless after Iroquois raids, asked Gansevoort to turn the homes over to them. Both actions were criticized by Philip Schuyler, then a New York representative to the Continental Congress, because all the Mohawks of Lower Mohawk castle had rejected fighting with the British, and many supported the Patriot cause. Ironically, Schuyler had been Washington's personal preference for command of the expedition, but his relief of command of the Continental Army's Northern Department had led to private service with the army until he could resign his commission, which he did in April 1779.

 

Exhausted from carrying heavy military equipment, Sullivan's horses reached the end of their endurance on their return route home. Just north of Elmira, New York, Sullivan euthanized his pack horses. A few years later, the skulls of these horses were lined along the trail as a warning to settlers. The area became known as "the Valley of Horses Heads" and is now known as the village and town of Horseheads, New York.

 

Sullivan, whose illness had slowed the expedition at times, resigned his commission in 1780 when his health continued to worsen.

 

More than 5,000 Iroquois refugees went to Canada (modern Ontario) for the British to feed. A report from 1778 by John Butler on the Haudenosaunee: "The Indians in this part of the Country are so ill off for Provisions that many have nothing to subsist upon but the roots and greens they gather in the woods" in May, 1778 – i.e., before the expedition. Fearing attack, many Tuscarora and Oneida defected to the British cause. The British granted the Indians 675,000 acres of land in Canada. About 1450 Iroquois and 400 allies lived at one new reserve at Grand River.

 

In February 1780, retired General Schuyler, now in the Congress, sent a party of pro-rebellion Indians to Fort Niagara to appeal for peace with the British-allied Iroquois. Suspecting a trick by Schuyler, those Iroquois rejected the proposal. The four messengers were imprisoned where one of them died.

 

Despite widespread dispersion, Washington was disappointed by the lack of a decisive battle and the failure to capture Fort Niagara. Although in truth, Washington's guidance to Sullivan had been that he take Ft Niagara, "if possible," an option not easily within Sullivan's means given the limitations of his artillery (no guns bigger than six inch field howitzers) and his logistics. Iroquois warriors and Loyalists continued to periodically raid the Mohawk and Schoharie Valleys during 1780 and 1781, causing widespread devastation of property and crops, and killing more than 200 settlers. The destruction of Minden on August 2, 1780 was the most destructive raid of property in the course of the four-year civil war. The last significant raid devastated a 20-mile swath of the lower Mohawk Valley in October 1781, but was defeated at the Battle of Johnstown on October 25, 1781. Walter Butler was killed in battle on October 30 at West Canada Creek during the Tory retreat.

 

The homelands and infrastructure of Iroquois life had been devastated by the campaign. In the long term, it became clear that the expedition broke the Iroquois Confederacy's power to maintain their former crops and utilize many town locations; the expedition appeared to have caused little more than famine and dispersion of the Iroquois people.

 

Following the war much of the Iroquois land was secured by the United States government in the peace Treaty of Fort Stanwix (1784) agreed to by the six nations of the Iroquois League. This land was later absorbed by treaties with the State of New York.

 

Much of the native population of these lands would move to Canada, Oklahoma, and Wisconsin. In the wake of the Treaty of Paris (1783), European-Americans began settling the newly vacant areas in relative safety, eventually isolating the remaining pockets of demoralized Iroquois into villages and towns cut off under land treaties with New York State (Wikipedia).

I'm not very methodical in my process but I decided to try and test Ilford SFX 200 for infrared shooting (because I know nothing about infrared). My method was to shoot one frame without any filter, one frame with a yellow filter (with a loss of one stop), one frame with a red filter (with a 1.5-2 stop loss) and finally with an R72 filter (with a five stop loss). everything was shot at f8 on a Nikon FE with a Nikon 24 2.8 ais lens. The scenes where metered with a sekonic studio master reflective meter at asa 200. The r72 shots where metered at asa 8 (or possibly 12 - it's hard to tell). So what you have here Is approximately this:

 

Row 1: (the roof of the building is red and you can really see the impact of the different filters on how it appears).

frame 1, no filter

frame 2, yellow filter

frame 3, red filter

frame 4 red filter -1 stop

frame 5, r72 filter

 

Row 2: frame 1, no filter

frame 2, yellow filter

frame 3, red filter

frame 4 r72 filter

frame 5, r72 filter -1stop

 

Row 2: frame 1, no filter

frame 2, yellow filter

frame 3, red filter

frame 4 r72 filter

frame 5, r72 filter -1stop

 

Finally in row one you can almost see the wood effect but this was all shot at the wrong time under partial cloud which really means...

Probably not much.

Enjoy.

  

Followed this fella as he worked his way methodically along the Valley Oak foraging for oak worms. He finally nabbed one for a nice meal. Photos were taken along Elk Slough, Yolo County, California.

In early morning light the ancient Ford Motor Company laker Benson Ford eases down the St. Marys river at "Mission Pt." Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan on June 19, 1981. The Benson and Henry sister ships were built for Ford Motor Company in 1924 the first boats on the Great Lakes with a diesel engine - huge slow RPM machines - you could hear the methodical drumming of their engine approaching a mile away. The entire forward end of the Benson was removed from the main deck - on up and is now a majestic lakefront cabin on South Bass Island in Lake Erie.

A capture from this past week of my outing on the bayou where fellow paddler and photographer Gary and I searched for those ever so precious encounters with the wildlife that forage in the area. Gary uses a sit on kayak for his handiwork while I use a canoe. Either craft makes an excellent platform from which to photograph the wildlife. The slow and methodical approach seems to work most of the time and can get you up close and personal with your subject. You can drop by Gary’s Photostream and view some of his exceptional handiwork. He’s definitely one of the true masters at capturing wildlife from this platform. A keen eye is also very beneficial and I know that there is some hawk blood in Gary’s veins because his eyesight is very keen when it comes to spotting animals in the trees along the water’s edge.

 

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Well, here it is. At last. My F-4J MOC, in the VF-74 "BEDEVILERS" Naval Fighter Squadron. It took loads of work and lots of hours, but I'm so glad I can say I finally did a Phantom.

 

Initially designed with the U.S. Navy in mind, the McDonnell aircraft company -- creator of the F-4 Phantom -- of the early 1950s tirelessly and methodically analyzed the Navy's needs and desires. They determined that the jet ideal for current and future carrier operations was an aircraft that was quick, technologically advanced, and able to fill multiple roles (i.e., dogfighting, ground attacks, etc.). Initially, designers from McDonnell wanted to modify their F3H Demon aircraft to simply be faster, more modular (to perhaps have different nose or cockpit variations), and more efficient. However, while beginning to proceed with this idea, many Naval officers consented that they had the role of an attack fighter already fulfilled by emerging aircraft from other companies. Eventually, McDonnell started working on a highly-requested all-weather defensive interceptor that would become the F-4 Phantom. Though this was a tall order to fill, F-4 deliveries began in the early 1960s to the U.S. Navy, and, proving highly versatile, eventually was given to the U.S. Marine Corps and U.S. Air Force.

 

The F-4J is one, later variant of the Phantom family, and with modifications to the airframe, engines and weapons systems, it was certainly one of the more advanced models. In fact, it was the first fighter in the world to incorporate a look-down/shoot-down targeting system. Among the Naval Fighter Squadrons that recieved the F-4Js, the VF-74 "BEDEVILERS" were certainly some of the finest that received them. Transitioning from their F-4Bs to the new F-4Js in the early 1970s, they partook in aerial combat in Vietnam, and didn't lose a single aircraft to enemy forces. They were also successful elsewhere, winning many awards during peacetime -- one of which was the Admiral Joseph Clifton Award, rendering them as the top Naval Fighter squadron in 1976. My F-4J is in a typical, later skin they'd use on the USS Forrestal (CV-59) aircraft carrier.

 

My model itself features dual, opening canopies, room for two minifigures in their respective tandem cockpit arrangement, functioning landing gear, and a simulated loadout of two AIM-7 Sparrows and four AIM-9 Sidewinders. I worked very tirelessly on both the diorama and the jet, and I do hope you like it. Comments, faves, and constructive criticisms, as always, are greatly appreciated!

Not sure if he was plucking out sections of this plant for part of his nest or was looking for tasty seeds. Yet it was very interesting to watch him methodically eviscerate this plant.

Gandhara is the name given to an ancient region or province invaded in 326 B.C. by Alexander the Great, who took Charsadda (ancient Puskalavati) near present-day Peshawar (ancient Purusapura) and then marched eastward across the Indus into the Punjab as far as the Beas river (ancient Vipasa). Gandhara constituted the undulating plains, irrigated by the Kabul River from the Khyber Pass area, the contemporary boundary between Pakistan and Afganistan, down to the Indus River and southward towards the Murree hills and Taxila (ancient Taksasila), near Pakistan"s present capital, Islamabad. Its art, however, during the first centuries of the Christian era, had adopted a substantially larger area, together with the upper stretches of the Kabul River, the valley of Kabul itself, and ancient Kapisa, as well as Swat and Buner towards the north.

   

A great deal of Gandhara sculptures has survived dating from the first to probably as late as the sixth or even the seventh century but in a remarkably homogeneous style. Most of the arts were almost always in a blue-gray mica schist, though sometimes in a green phyllite or in stucco, or very rarely in terracotta. Because of the appeal of its Western classical aesthetic for the British rulers of India, schooled to admire all things Greek and Roman, a great deal found its way into private hands or the shelter of museums.

  

Gandhara sculpture primarily comprised Buddhist monastic establishments. These monasteries provided a never-ending gallery for sculptured reliefs of the Buddha and Bodhisattvas. The Gandhara stupas were comparatively magnified and more intricate, but the most remarkable feature, which distinguished the Gandhara stupas from the pervious styles were hugely tiered umbrellas at its peak, almost soaring over the total structure. The abundance of Gandharan sculpture was an art, which originated with foreign artisans.

  

In the excavation among the varied miscellany of small bronze figures, though not often like Alexandrian imports, four or five Buddhist bronzes are very late in date. These further illustrate the aura of the Gandhara art. Relics of mural paintings though have been discovered, yet the only substantial body of painting, in Bamiyan, is moderately late, and much of it belongs to an Iranian or central Asian rather than an Indian context. Non-narrative themes and architectural ornament were omnipresent at that time. Mythical figures and animals such as atlantes, tritons, dragons, and sea serpents derive from the same source, although there is the occasional high-backed, stylized creature associated with the Central Asian animal style. Moldings and cornices are decorated mostly with acanthus, laurel, and vine, though sometimes with motifs of Indian, and occasionally ultimately western Asian, origin: stepped merlons, lion heads, vedikas, and lotus petals. It is worth noting that architectural elements such as pillars, gable ends, and domes as represented in the reliefs tend to follow the Indian forms

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Gandhara became roughly a Holy Land of Buddhism and excluding a handful of Hindu images, sculpture took the form either of Buddhist sect objects, Buddha and Bodhisattvas, or of architectural embellishment for Buddhist monasteries. The more metaphorical kinds are demonstrated by small votive stupas, and bases teeming with stucco images and figurines that have lasted at Jaulian and Mora Moradu, outpost monasteries in the hills around Taxila. Hadda, near the present town of Jalalabad, has created some groups in stucco of an almost rococo while more latest works of art in baked clay, with strong Hellenistic influence, have been revealed there, in what sums up as tiny chapels. It is not known exactly why stucco, an imported Alexandrian modus operandi, was used. It is true that grey schist is not found near Taxila, however other stones are available, and in opposition to the ease of operating with stucco, predominantly the artistic effects which can be achieved, must be set with its impermanence- fresh deposits frequently had to be applied. Excluding possibly at Taxila, its use emerges to have been a late expansion.

  

Architectural fundamentals of the Gandhara art, like pillars, gable ends and domes as showcased in the reliefs, were inclined to follow Indian outlines, but the pilaster with capital of Corinthian type, abounds and in one-palace scene Persepolitan columns go along with Roman coffered ceilings. The so-called Shrine of the Double-Headed Eagle at Sirkap, in actuality a stupa pedestal, well demonstrates this enlightening eclecticism- the double-headed bird on top of the chaitya arch is an insignia of Scythian origin, which appears as a Byzantine motif and materialises much later in South India as the ga1J.qa-bheru1J.qa in addition to atop European armorial bearings.

 

In Gandhara art the descriptive friezes were all but invariably Buddhist, and hence Indian in substance- one depicted a horse on wheels nearing a doorway, which might have represented the Trojan horse affair, but this is under scan. The Dioscuri, Castor and Pollux, familiar from the previous Greek-based coinage of the region, appeared once or twice as standing figurines, presumably because as a pair, they tallied an Indian mithuna couple. There were also female statuettes, corresponding to city goddesses. Though figures from Butkara, near Saidan Sharif in Swat, were noticeably more Indian in physical type, and Indian motifs were in abundance there. Sculpture was, in the main, Hellenistic or Roman, and the art of Gandhara was indeed "the easternmost appearance of the art of the Roman Empire, especially in its late and provincial manifestations". Furthermore, naturalistic portrait heads, one of the high-points of Roman sculpture, were all but missing in Gandhara, in spite of the episodic separated head, probably that of a donor, with a discernible feeling of uniqueness. Some constitutions and poses matched those from western Asia and the Roman world; like the manner in which a figure in a recurrently instanced scene from the Dipankara jataka had prostrated himself before the future Buddha, is reverberated in the pose of the defeated before the defeater on a Trojanic frieze on the Arch of Constantine and in later illustrations of the admiration of the divinised emperor. One singular recurrently occurring muscular male figure, hand on sword, witnessed in three-quarters view from the backside, has been adopted from western classical sculpture. On occasions standing figures, even the Buddha, deceived the elusive stylistic actions of the Roman sculptor, seeking to express majestas. The drapery was fundamentally Western- the folds and volume of dangling garments were carved with realness and gusto- but it was mainly the persistent endeavours at illusionism, though frequently obscured by unrefined carving, which earmarked the Gandhara sculpture as based on a western classical visual impact.

  

The distinguishing Gandhara sculpture, of which hundreds if not thousands of instances have outlived, is the standing or seated Buddha. This flawlessly reproduces the necessary nature of Gandhara art, in which a religious and an artistic constituent, drawn from widely varied cultures have been bonded. The iconography is purely Indian. The seated Buddha is mostly cross-legged in the established Indian manner. However, forthcoming generations, habituated to think of the Buddha as a monk, and unable to picture him ever possessing long hair or donning a turban, came to deduce the chigon as a "cranial protuberance", singular to Buddha. But Buddha is never depicted with a shaved head, as are the Sangha, the monks; his short hair is clothed either in waves or in taut curls over his whole head. The extended ears are merely due to the downward thrust of the heavy ear-rings worn by a prince or magnate; the distortion of the ear-lobes is especially visible in Buddha, who, in Gandhara, never wore ear-rings or ornaments of any kind. As Foucher puts it, the Gandhara Buddha is at a time a monk without shaving and a prince stripped off jewellery.

  

The western classical factor rests in the style, in the handling of the robe, and in the physiognomy of Buddha. The cloak, which covers all but the appendages (though the right shoulder is often bared), is dealt like in Greek and Roman sculptures; the heavy folds are given a plastic flair of their own, and only in poorer or later works do they deteriorate into indented lines, fairly a return to standard Indian practice. The "western" treatment has caused Buddha"s garment to be misidentified for a toga; but a toga is semicircular, while, Buddha wore a basic, rectangular piece of cloth, i.e., the samghiifi, a monk"s upper garment. The head gradually swerves towards a hieratic stylisation, but at its best, it is naturalistic and almost positively based on the Greek Apollo, undoubtedly in Hellenistic or Roman copies.

 

Gandhara art also had developed at least two species of image, i.e. not part of the frieze, in which Buddha is the fundamental figure of an event in his life, distinguished by accompanying figures and a detailed mise-en-scene. Perhaps the most remarkable amongst these is the Visit to the Indrasala Cave, of which the supreme example is dated in the year 89, almost unquestionably of the Kanishka period. Indra and his harpist are depicted on their visit in it. The small statuettes of the visitors emerge below, an elephant describing Indra. The more general among these detailed images, of which approximately 30 instances are known, is presumably related with the Great Miracle of Sravasti. In one such example, one of the adjoining Bodhisattvas is distinguished as Avalokiteshwara by the tiny seated Buddha in his headgear. Other features of these images include the unreal species of tree above Buddha, the spiky lotus upon which he sits, and the effortlessly identifiable figurines of Indra and Brahma on both sides.

  

Another important aspect of the Gandhara art was the coins of the Graeco-Bactrians. The coins of the Graeco-Bactrians - on the Greek metrological standard, equals the finest Attic examples and of the Indo-Greek kings, which have until lately served as the only instances of Greek art found in the subcontinent. The legendary silver double decadrachmas of Amyntas, possibly a remembrance issue, are the biggest "Greek" coins ever minted, the largest cast in gold, is the exceptional decadrachma of the same king in the Bibliotheque Nationale, with the Dioscuri on the inverse. Otherwise, there was scanty evidence until recently of Greek or Hellenistic influences in Gandhara. A manifestation of Greek metropolitan planning is furnished by the rectilinear layouts of two cities of the 1st centuries B.C./A.D.--Sirkap at Taxila and Shaikhan Pheri at Charsadda. Remains of the temple at Jandial, also at Taxila and presumably dating back to 1st century B.C., also includes Greek characteristics- remarkably the huge base mouldings and the Ionic capitals of the colossal portico and antechamber columns. In contrast, the columns or pilasters on the immeasurable Gandhara friezes (when they are not in a Indian style), are consistently coronated by Indo-Corinthian capitals, the local version of the Corinthian capital- a certain sign of a comparatively later date.

 

The notable Begram hoard confirms articulately to the number and multiplicity of origin of the foreign artefacts imported into Gandhara. This further illustrates the foreign influence in the Gandhara art. Parallel hoards have been found in peninsular India, especially in Kolhapur in Maharashtra, but the imported wares are sternly from the Roman world. At Begram the ancient Kapisa, near Kabul, there are bronzes, possibly of Alexandrian manufacture, in close proximity with emblemata (plaster discs, certainly meant as moulds for local silversmiths), bearing reliefs in the purest classical vein, Chinese lacquers and Roman glass. The hoard was possibly sealed in mid-3rd century, when some of the subjects may have been approximately 200 years old "antiques", frequently themselves replicates of classical Greek objects. The plentiful ivories, consisting in the central of chest and throne facings, engraved in a number of varied relief techniques, were credibly developed somewhere between Mathura and coastal Andhra. Some are of unrivalled beauty. Even though a few secluded instances of early Indian ivory carving have outlived, including the legendary mirror handle from Pompeii, the Begram ivories are the only substantial collection known until moderately in present times of what must always have been a widespread craft. Other sites, particularly Taxila, have generated great many instances of such imports, some from India, some, like the appealing tiny bronze figure of Harpocrates, undoubtedly from Alexandria. Further cultural influences are authenticated by the Scytho Sarmatian jewellery, with its characteristic high-backed carnivores, and by a statue of St. Peter. But all this should not cloud the all-important truth that the immediately identifiable Gandhara style was the prevailing form of artistic manifestation throughout the expanse for several centuries, and the magnitude of its influence on the art of central Asia and China and as far as Japan, allows no doubt about its integrity and vitality.

 

In the Gandhara art early Buddhist iconography drew heavily on traditional sources, incorporating Hindu gods and goddesses into a Buddhist pantheon and adapting old folk tales to Buddhist religious purposes. Kubera and Harm are probably the best-known examples of this process.

  

Five dated idols from Gandhara art though exist, however the hitch remains that the era is never distinguished. The dates are in figures under 100 or else in 300s. Moreover one of the higher numbers are debatable, besides, the image upon which it is engraved is not in the conventional Andhra style. The two low-number-dated idols are the most sophisticated and the least injured. Their pattern is classical Gandhara. The most undemanding rendition of their dates relates them to Kanishka and 78 A.D. is assumed as the commencement of his era. They both fall in the second half of the 2nd century A.D. and equally later, if a later date is necessitated for the beginning of Kanishka`s time. This calculation nearly parallels numismatics and archaeological evidences. The application of other eras, like the Vikrama (base date- 58 B.C.) and the Saka (base date- 78 A.D.), would place them much later. The badly battered figurines portray standing Buddhas, without a head of its own, but both on original figured plinths. They come to view as depicting the classical Gandhara style; decision regarding where to place these two dated Buddhas, both standing, must remain knotty till more evidence comes out as to how late the classical Gandhara panache had continued.

   

Methodical study of the Gandhara art, and specifically about its origins and expansion, is befuddled with numerous problems, not at least of which is the inordinately complex history and culture of the province. It is one of the great ethnical crossroads of the world simultaneously being in the path of all the intrusions of India for over three millennia. Bussagli has rightly remarked, `More than any other Indian region, Gandhara was a participant in the political and cultural events that concerned the rest of the Asian continent`.

   

However, Systematic study of the art of Gandhara, and particularly of its origins and development, is bedeviled by many problems, not the least of which is the extraordinarily complex history and culture of the region.

   

In spite of the labours of many scholars over the past hundred and fifty years, the answers to some of the most important questions, such as the number of centuries spanned by the art of Gandhara, still await, fresh archaeological, inscriptional, or numismatic evidence.

 

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gandhara

 

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gautama_Buddha

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***** Selected for sale in the GETTY IMAGES COLLECTION on April 30th 2015

  

CREATIVE RF gty.im/ 552123007 MOMENT OPEN COLLECTION**

  

This photograph became my 591st image to be selected for inclusion and sale in the Getty Images 'Moment' collection, and I am very grateful to them for such an amazing opportunity.

 

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THE BEST LAID PLANS..... (Part One)

 

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COFFEE TASTING KISSES

 

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Caffè Artigiano, Hornby Street, just off of Robson. Early in the AM and I'm in need of my caffeine fix. I'm here for a reason, not simply by chance or else any Starbucks offering overpriced grinds and yesterdays cake would suffice. The joint is relatively quiet right now, just a handful of early birds revelling in the delicious aromas of freshly ground coffee beans or grabbing a bite to eat to start the day before the rush sets in. Commuter zone in the big city, bored faces, blank expressions, dashed aspirations crushed on the rocks of a world of tedium and conformity. Damn this modern day life and the frenetic pace that we lead like sheep, following the pack, never questioning why we do what we do, never stopping to smell the roses and take some time out to enjoy what we actually have. Not the commercialism nor Rolex around our wrists, but the purity of life, the wonder of our existence, the simple things that fall prey to the darkness all around us, victim of our need and greed.

 

I clear the table of all debris and distractions, every trace of the people who sat here before me. I like clean lines, a lack of clutter, room to think and move, nothing invading my personal space as I brush aside some sugar granules and a cellophane wrapper to an oatmeal cookie that offends my eyes as it covets the beautiful antique styled wooden table at which I sit. My left hand rises slowly to reveal the Omega chrome bezel of my wrist watch flashing beneath the overhead strip lighting which tells me that it's just turned eight. The coffee parked up in front of me, teasing my senses is a work of art, I ask you, how can a simple coffee look so fucking appealing for a couple of measly bucks?

 

That old Omega reminds me of my own mortality. A parting gift from the only woman I ever truly loved and the only person to get close enough to me to scare me shitless at the very prospect of giving up the only life that I have known ever since I was a rebellious and wayward kid. The soldier within me still yearns for leadership, like a scruffy mutt I await my orders before I commit to action. Times change, people bend the truth, lips lie but memories stay as true and fresh as the day that they formed in your pathetic little mind. I'm the same man yet different from the one back then. Older and wiser, more resigned and bitter at life's misfortunes and twists of fate, I believe in always looking to the future, though a nod to the past sometimes keeps us from insanity.

 

The rich dark roasted beans seduce my taste buds as I take a sip, carefully placing lips to porcelain, cautious not to burn my flesh and take layers off the roof of my mouth in the process. But I needn't worry. Corporate bullshit, health and safety gone mad, rules and regulations regarding the safe operating temperatures of tea urns and coffee machines to safeguard against customer claims of injury and the subsequent backlash of claims and counter claims in the Canadian court rooms. It's civilisation gone mad as newspapers daily tell us of fatheads playing the system and winning millions in damages for the grape that they slipped over on in Walmart whilst browsing for some breakfast fruit, the burns received from the hot apple pies that are served in MacDonald's or the Winnebago that crashed on cruise control when the driver left the drivers seat to go to the porta-loo thinking that the vehicle would just follow the road on it's own volition.

 

There is a dumbing down of society, a wising up to the intricacies of playing the system, screwing your fellow man and taking them for everything you can get. I could weep. Still, the Java tastes good as I completely destroy the delicate and ornate patterning that now swirls around like a tsunami in my neatly monikered cup, eyes subtly surveying the room as the people sit in their own little worlds. To my right at a two seater table sits Miss Prissy knickers, Librarian looks, mousy hair that could do with a little TLC, glasses that could kill a mans passion at twenty yards and eyes glued to the pages of this weeks new Stephen King best selling paperback. She's a speed reader, well practised in the art of darting through those written words at a rate of knots, taking in the impactive detail, digesting the characterisation without a hint of emotion in her face. Not a twitch nor flicker of the eybrows, not a muscle moved in the mouth, jeez, she'd make the perfect assassin with that poker face. She's blissfully unaware of anything around her, devoted to the storyline, immersed. No hint of a wedding ring on her fingers, she's married to her job, resolutely single and has probably never had a decent lay in her entire life.

 

A guy passes by her table, emerging from the tight and compact dimensions of the wash-room at the rear of the coffee-house, discreetly placed and merging into the décor with an elegant simplicity. His hands are still slightly wet, beads of water tumbling from his flesh to the ground like jumpers from a blazing sky scraper. He walks to the table and gathers up his belongings, checking his inner jacket pocket for his cell phone which he flicks open and checks, eyes registering a degree of disdain at not receiving whatever message he had hoped. A lovers words, a secret rendezvous, work details and directions, whatever, he's none too pleased as he pulls a set of car keys from his pocket, I catch a brief glimpse of the manufacturers corporate logo as he winks at the pretty young thing behind the bar who served him as she has each morning this week at the same time, same beverage, same price. People and habits, you just gotta love 'em.

 

" Have a good one Ray ", she says as he reaches the door and throws a smile back her way. I drain my cup of it's final liquid droplets and rise to my feet, pushing the wooden chair back a way before turning and making my exit through the door. The sunlight is bright and brilliant, piercing my retinas as I place my Ray bans on walk down the road about thirty five paces behind Ray. An unremarkable man of five feet ten inches in height, thirty six years old, married with two children. Samantha aged fourteen and David aged twelve. A picture of bliss with a neat condo on Beacon Avenue near the waterfront in Sidney, BC, two cars, a dog and two cats. The details from his file are fresh in my mind as I increase my pace to within twelve paces of the mark as he winds his way unwittingly towards the end of his life. A gambling man by any standards, neatly attired, respectable and clean, though up to his neck in debt thanks to a dead cert bet that he obtained through a friend of a friend who just happened top hear a couple of guys in the know talking shit near the race track. I hate gamblers more than any other form of low life scum sucking mother fuckers. The thin veneer of honesty and integrity whilst all the while they would sell their own grandma down the line if they thought it would fund their next certainty. I learned long ago in life that there is no such thing as a certainty, and any fool who lives with that lie and hope deserves what's coming to him. In Ray's case it's a head full of nine millimetre full metal jacket for defaulting on his twenty five thousand dollar stake money that he borrowed form some very unsavoury dudes. These are the sort of guys that would kill your family right out in front of you just to prove a point, not that that ever crossed Rays stupid head when the moment came to place the bet that he could never honour should the worse scenario play out, which it surely did.

 

He is striding casually, oblivious to my presence, unaware that he is now about a minute from his own death and that his wife and two children have already been taken care of by the men who shall remain nameless. You see, in this game, nothing is sacrosanct, not the solemn vows of marriage nor the bonds of love from a husband to a wife, a mother to her daughter, a father to her son. You take the risk, you make the bet, you borrow the money and if you fail to deliver what's owed on time, well then let's just Say that all hell breaks loose until the beneficiaries, who in this sad situation in fact benefited from a big fast zero in monetary gain terms, deem that the punishment has indeed been made to fit the crime. My eyes are surveying the scene, looking ahead, my brain calculating angles and degrees, seconds and minutes of escapes routes from the scene of the crime before it has been committed. Lucky for me, Ray turns Eastwards and moves into a skinny alley between two buildings, like a set from a motion picture as I hone in on his footsteps and reach inside my coat pocket for the cold steel of the weapon. In a way I'm helping the hapless fool out, he has no idea that his family home is now a bloodbath resembling a shoot out scene from a Quentin Tarantino flick, everything he loved wiped out in an instant. Well, I say everything, but of course that is not counting the blonde floozy twenty two year old from work that he has been enjoying after hours horizontal naked dancing with in the week that I have tailed and watched his every move. Me, I'm methodical if nothing else. I like to study the mark, learn their traits and characteristics, those little things that define who they are, daily details lost amidst the city lights and hubbub of noise and people. And what a sweet little thing his mistress is. I can almost hear her tears and see the droplets flood from the beautiful eyes when she discovers the awful truth that will hit the newspaper stands by the morning.

 

My hand emerges wit the silenced gun, the metal texture glistening under the sunlight as I come to a standstill right next to Ray who has stopped by the wall to pull a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. We exchange a glance as he suddenly sees the weapon and realizes that for him, there is no hiding now, no turning back the clocks.

 

" Please, whatever they are paying you, I can match it, double it.... name your price "

 

Quite understandably, the man is shaking with fear as he drops the unlit cigarette from his hand, those eyes begging my approval and acceptance like a scolded child looking to his fathers face. I'm just not the forgiving type sadly for Raymond Jacobs as I raise the silencer to within just a few inches from his right temple and reply.

 

" Really Ray. See, from where I am standing, you don't have a fucking pot to piss in what with the money you lost at the race track. Oh and by the way, Mr Stokes and Mr Reynolds both send you their warmest regards, and wish you to know that your wife and two children will be waiting for you somewhere in the afterlife. Hey, what's it to be, head or heart? "

 

Ray looks momentarily bemused as tears form in his eyes, " What? ", he says, staling for time, an effort wasted on a cold hearted bastard such as I. And after the silence comes the pain and as he begins to beg like an animal for his life, a mouth off all at a tangent spouting all manner of gibberish that is beyond my comprehension. Now me, I'm a tolerant man, I can suck it in wit the very best of them, I can stand most anything in life except maybe the sight of a man crying like a baby. I hate it when a mark does that, I mean, come on fella, at least face your plight like a grown man and die with a little semblance of dignity would ya!

 

" Okey-dokey, head it is then my friend ", I calmly announce as I pump a single round round straight into his skull. A spurt of blood splatters across the cement wall behind, leaving a pattern like a map of Africa as the bullet pushes out with a mixture of bone fragment and brain matter. The shell embeds itself in the wall as the casing hits the floor with a glorious ping of metal on pavement. His body rocks upwards and back, falling to the ground like a sack of the proverbial shit, eyes registering the shock and pain of that moment of impact before I pump two further rounds into his heart. His ribcage rises one last time, the expellation of air from his lungs is loud and forced, followed by silence as the life bleeds out of his eyes. I holster my gun, checking the vicinity for unwelcome attention, though mercifully the coast is clear. I retrieve the shell casing from the ground, placing it into my pocket, and also the slug from the wall which comes out with a couple of prods of my bony fingers. I hate clutter, I don't like debris and remnants left at the scene, it's just plain sloppy work.

 

The job is done, my work is finished, and my bank balance will be swollen by twenty large ones no sooner than I have contacted my keeper with confirmation of the kill. Time to vacate the scene before the cops come tumbling down upon me. The coffee is still on my mind and lips, staining my teeth and overwhelming my senses with the delerium of that java buzz as I make good my exit. Coffee kisses from the bosses, Ray. At least you are reunited with your family now

 

As I begin walking along the corridor between the two building, ears prick up to the sound of cough. Dust allergy perhaps, muted tone, stifled by a closed hand across the convulsing lips. Eyes hone in on the doorway slightly ajar to my immediate left where I stand. Dusty layers formed like a blanket through non use, finger prints and a palm fresh and staring me right in the face. I place my right hand onto the wooden textures of the old lockless door, perhaps once a storage room to one of the nearby shops, and press firmly as it creaks under protest and leaves a shadow across the floor that dances a tango of delight to the woman cowering in the shadows. Eyes meet for the first time and form a deep and abiding dislike for one another.

 

She darts past me like a frightened mouse and heads towards the network of quaint shops with faux period facades and cobbled stones. I cannot allow her to escape. The hunt is on.......

 

.

 

TO BE CONCLUDED......

 

.

 

.

 

Written June 8th 2011

   

Photograph taken at 08:25am inside the Caffe Artigiano coffee house in Hornby Street, just off Robson Street in down town Vancouver, Canada on April 5th 2010.

 

.

 

Nikon D90 15mm 1/60s f/4.0 iso450 Tamron 10-24mm f/3.5-4.5 Di LC II. UV filter

 

The TC&W was still at work all day today sorting sand cars on the west end of the Minnesota Prairie Line at Wood Lake. With the 10 mph speed limit and a few hundred cars to pick through to find just the ones they need, it has been slow, methodical work from this dedicated crew. This shot shows yet another cut of cars being brought into town to be sorted using the siding in the distance.

THE DRUNKEN MUSE

The story "Drunken Muse" was audio recorded on a hidden voice recorder during the conversations about two decades ago. The story-teller didn't know or consent to the recording.

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tape_recorder

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/8-track_tape

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Compact_Cassette

The audio tapes on compact cassettes were never used. The records were partially damaged and lost.

Herewith the unedited transcript version.

 

medium.com/paul-jaisini-paints-invisible-paintings/paul-j...

  

I am so pumped to get back to painting as I return to the second year of the art school after a full year suspension. As always it is like time-travel culturally speaking, like walking right into the middle ages going through the antique building’s portal.

Art studios are the huge L-shaped lofts with super tall ceilings 20 feet no less with the wall to wall windows so that sunlight illuminates the space from south and east side designed for the purpose so that one could paint there from morning till sunset.

In a studio there are classical gypsum sculptures, expensive copies of Venus de Milo, David, Laocoön and the others. In the art studio there stood the noses, eyes, lips, feet, and palms on the wood shelves.

Sketching the gypsum body parts helps you to build the classic academic base on which stands the whole modern and contempo art. This sort of teaching is specific for the art schools that preserve the traditions they had been founded on. There is only few art schools like this and of this caliber left now. Could be that this is the only legendary school that continues to function as if nothing had changed in the world. In the rest of the world with billions of some art classes nobody knows what does the old tradition of art school is for, its totally unfashionable.

Studying classic art (en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Academic_art) here is the foundation for creativity in any of the art styles.

  

The smell of art is what defines the studio but not from human presence, something like an aroma reminiscent of the eastern market where smoke from hookaahs mix with the oil vapors, exotic fragrance from candles and spices. The Art Studios were never renovated since the times they were built over 150 years ago. The wood floors are saturated with art oils as if the floor is waxed with the organic oils from nuts, linen ( linseed oil, poppy seed oil, and so forth.) Adding to the mix the varnishes used by painters (pine wood varnish, Dammar varnish and others) It makes this ART SMELL to be the most intoxicating and ever-lasting musk.

  

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oil_painting

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oil_painting - Ingredients

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Studio - Art_studio

  

The instance you enter the studio space you feel the belonging to a knighthood and the whole art history. You are the undivided part of those people who left their creation imprints.

Super pumped up after the long break up with the arts after my full year of non-stop party marathons I had returned to the bohemian life style.

Actually my other life style wasn't any different from the bohemian.

The only difference is that there is some meaning in the bohemian life style, something to create, to shape. Not just spend time doing sports and girls but something on a whole 'nother level only with the same sub text and by far more emotionally connected.

The bohemian I think is much more my thing, that fits me as a person. Maybe because my old man is the greatest sculptor.

He is color blind so apparently I took up the torch, I have a very special sense for color.

  

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sculpture

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bohemianism

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Color_blindness

  

There could be an inborn human predicament or inborn genius.

I returned into the world to kiss its ground. I like everything about it, the babeville and its fashion circus.

The art students are known to come up with endless varieties of how to be stylish.

Take me for example, I am chilling in a suit jacket. It was professionally hand-tailored out of a denim Pajamas with stripes and starry silk underlining.

This “look” is completed by my python leather jeans. And over that an authentic LONG military Germany Waffen Elite Officer black Leather Coat from the WWII, only it is without a Swastika.

I never part with my large portfolio and a Field Easel.

EASEL

  

About 700 students attend the studies. The art school accepts only the best of best with few exception such as the kids of celebrity artists, writers and musicians and people who had real power in the city.

I wasn't enrolled for money or the A-lister parents, but for my talents. The Art specialty (painting, drawing, sculpture) teachers here are the world-wide recognized contemporary artists.

In a matter of my working ethics these important artists would point at me as the example of how fast I work, how well I sketch in color, how I always choose the most unexpected and unusual angle for my composition and so on...

  

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Composition_(visual_arts)

name banner gif

  

Optical illusion geometric gif

  

(portraiture, still-life, and landscape)

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Still_life

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Portrait

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Landscape_painting

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Figure_drawing

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Figure_painting

  

I never work on an académie (live drawing of a model, live painting of a model) the given eighty -- ninety hours. My whole process is about six -- nine hours to fully complete the work so I get out of the studio for some action and fun.

I’m probably the strongest in the class. My art professors know I don’t need to be there to distract the others.

When I’ve got nothing to do I start banging the head against the wall. Still I am criticized SUPER harshly for cutting the classes.

At this point I am not aware of the inner workings of “THE SYSTEM”.

I call suitcase with a secret compartment.

At the grade shows I only see the bad grades on my best artworks.

There is another side of the coin. It revealed in the future when I got to befriend a secretary at the Dean’s office. It was about the time of my graduating year.

The art teachers actually always considered me to be the leading artist among all students. They would grade all my artworks high on my personal record I knew nothing about.

That was how the art school’s system pushed the talented students to go further to open up their potential. Pushing to the limits of impossible.

I am harshly criticized for cutting a lot of classes.

There is another side of the coin. It will be revealed in the future when I got to befriend a secretary at the Dean's office. It was about the time of my graduating year.

The art teachers actually always considered me to be the leading artist among all students. They would grade all my artworks high on my personal record I knew nothing about.

That was how the art school's system pushed the talented students to go further to open up their potential. Pushing to the limits of impossible.

Willing or not but the doubts get in my head. I was thinking (rather frantically) that maybe I’m all just misguided. I will work to beef up my skills unable to accept that I am not really a “genius” artist. The bad grades were corrupting my vision.

Totally clueless that these bad grades in my case were used as "disciplinary measures" for my behavior of anarchy. These grades had nothing to do with my artworks.

And yet my best drawings and paintings are graded the lowest. At the same time the art professors are taking my works home. I always find empty walls where my works were displayed for the semester shows.

Sooner or later the missing artworks got me enraged. My classmates tell me the back story on what REALLY had happened.

All the art professors usually go the painting major's finals. So they just took my artworks right off the wall.

Ever since I heard this back story I flaunt how IDGAF to even pick up my works with the bad grades after the finals end.

Like a bunch of some doomsday looters in sight of an electronic store the art students same as the teachers vultured my artworks. Later some of my paintings and drawings were seen at the school's museum, especially the paintings.

The story of the artworks snatched off my exhibit wall developed further.

In the art school the art teachers are the privileged kind who exhibit regularly. All are the accomplished artists with big names.

Another thing about my artworks (no longer mine and in someone else's possession) is the story that involves someone with the top art rep being the art dynasty. Even so it happed that the leading art professor nicknamed Molly (for her annoying facial mole) used my art stuff to have her son who studied same years as me, just never expelled, to apply to an art academy with the highest qualification requirements. Molly's son portfolio sucked. To get him qualified to apply she gave her son all of my artworks she collected.

The juice was given to me by the reliable sources. The story was concurred by the eye--witnesses the students who were applying to the same academy together with Molly's son. Some of these students knew my work by the style, special color palette and the brushwork.

They all knew that Molly's son was using my artworks. He only had to forge his signature and remove mine.

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Study_(art)

  

My drawings, sketches, paintings, watercolors are in "wide" use by others.

I tell that to describe the routine of my life.

It could explain why I was expelled three times for the chronic absence, for sabotaging the lectures -- getting my classmates to leave the studio and go to the movies or to the beach.

Fast forward to that event of the breaking point when I started to work systematically.

  

I was sucked into work as if a drug addiction. I was penetrating deeper to the very core of creativity. Reading books, going to the museums, working in the field, working in the museums to copy masters. I completely forgot all about life around me.

Practically I was devoured and digested with my nails and hair by that devil called the academic art. It sucked out the leftovers of my soul.

I stayed in the studio after the classes to work. There were only few students like this, spiritually close to me. To them it was their life style since the day they had entered the art school unlike me. Whenever I'd get bored with art I'd quit working and just leave without asking permission.

Now as if something had hit me hard and I started to really work. Most art students here typically come from such backgrounds when they did their baby steps and studied in the children's (secondary) art school from an early age and tutored by art teachers at home

I had a tendency to take on a higher complexity unprepared without the experience of any art school training (the eight years on a daily basic with teachers and methodical practice.)

As long as I remember myself I was drawing, during my school years, on the notebooks, with chalk on the asphalt, with stick on the sand. I did it subconsciously, not knowing what I was doing.

IDK, could be due to the several bad bike accidents when my head ended up hitting the brick...

  

Why did my brain moved into the direction of noticing those things that normal people should not be noticing? That the leaves on the trees are not at all green, but violet.

The falling shadows from the street lights are not at all outlined by black, the contours are the absolute blue.

The trees look like people.

There are so much more shades of colors that language could articulate.

Stuff like this filled up my head so that there was no place left for just a thought about girls, more so even the thoughts to manipulate my body functions. For instance using the

bathroom. I almost peed my pants. Truthfully I was on the edge of madness.

I remember how I hallucinated during my work imagining that someone had come into my studio and I spoke to "the guest." My brain was ill, there was no escape from that hell.

  

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Violet_(color)

  

Once I was walking on a street without any awareness. My mind was no longer in command of anything accept the obsession with my painting. As I was pushing the limits of what was humanly possible in a matter of progress from the previous stage when I could draw and paint with intuitive results now I considered as totally armature waste of art materials. My condition would be hard to describe since I could hardly remember what was it like during that madly intense period. I know that I was working non--stop and did make some major break through. It worked but at the same time the progress turned its evil side, I wasn't able to stop even for a brief moment. Something happened to my otherwise incorruptible memory that I could only remember few things from that period. And one of those things was my death walk through the city streets on a day I was supposed to disappear.

When I realized that I was walking automatically, blind and incredibly

avoiding the cars, for the first time I felt the fear of madness that can easily take my life. It wasn't something I would fear if I was in my other life when loosing it would be quite an ordinary thing and not due to my lost mind.

Whatever it was I survived with no chances to stay alive that day. I had more chances to live on when I was shot at execution style, when I was drowning in bad storm, climbing on a building like a cat, and on many others such occasions.

Some guardian angel was looking over me as I came to the final moment of certain death, blind, deaf, disoriented and delusional.

As we finished with draperies, still life, gypsum figures we moved on to the nude. To draw and paint from the live sitter, male or female model.

There comes an old fat hag to be posed before the artists. She will be POSING even during the breaks. She sits professionally without a slight move of her flab folds for us to draw her “forms”. ‘assume it was done for the boys not to get distracted with the female anatomy.

The models with “rounded” forms were chosen so we would study the reflects and double reflects on a “sphere-like” and “cylinder-like” forms.

There would be plenty of the cast shadow (a type of shadow that is created on a form), and a drop shadow ( below the image).

  

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_human_positions

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Figure_study

  

The working objective was to concentrate on the drawing’s construction.

When we’d get a young female model, she’d be so skeletal that we studied the skeleton. This type of models was as unattractive as the fat ones.

The art students without an eye for a drawing and technique produced their works of caricature quality. With the lost proportions the models looked like animals, skinny chickens or fat frogs.

For me it was a serious job, body didn’t exist. I x-rayed the flubs of fat to see the bones to connect them to muscles, to build a form.

  

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Caricature

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Muscle

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Skeleton

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Human_skeleton

  

The illness I call the overdose had progressed and my end was near.

Homies who knew me used to say that I was cracked.

When I moved from the classicism to modern (I refused to see any modern or contemporary art, never wanted to see it, or ever saw it) I entered the Modern art on my own, as my foot stepped into the forth dimension.

I entered the world of mad pressure. Good I stepped in it one foot yet.

I was sleeping in the studio right on the floor near my work and placed an electric heater near by.

It was impossible to heat up whole place where fifty heavy-duty easels only took a quarter of the studio space.

In the center there was a huge round stage made from a special hard wood to hold any number of models when needed for the multiple human-figure compositions.

The place was full of easels, portable and the large for the field. The chairs, tables, palettes, boxes with paint, cases with paper and lots of other art stuff piled up into mountains.

The parquet floor was always covered in fresh oil paints even though the teachers tried in vein to prove a fact that working neatly was by far more productive.

  

We had a dormitory built same year as the art school which was 150 something years ago.

If you stayed late in the studio that was forbidden, you couldn't get to the dorm.

A guard at the main door was a real watch dog, he faithfully guarded the pathway knowing every student's face.

The dorm was occupied by those who couldn't pay for a room or the apartment in the city.

Ten beds were squeezed in a dorm room.

This part of the antique building was never renovated probably b/c it was planned to be turned into more art studios.

But since there were out of town students who had no place to live they were given a place in this dorm.

The beds were of a good prison-like quality so the survival was possible. Another thing is what was happening in the dorm.

On a typical day nobody there had any money left after the expensive art materials. Not a penny to get high. Alcoholic liquid (40-60%) was soaked into the bread.

From one bite of that bread you could instantly drop dead as if your legs got cut off by a train.

The receptors inside the nose absorb the fumes to hit right into the brain, this way the booze doesn't ever enter the digestive system and blood.

It kills or makes one go bonkers.

Some pissheads in desperation poured vodka into a wine bottle cap to inhale it like coke. After one cap screw it was a total alchoholocaust.

There were many ways of economizing: to use a medical thin rubber tube to suck the drink very slowly, one bottle would

serve four alkies.

It was the usual schizophrenic day for me. I had my dose of coffee and ate on a way to the studio.

Those days I didn't miss a class afraid to get expelled for the last and final time.

I couldn't understand this thing about my artworks. Why did my classmates literally begged on their knees to have the C-graded artworks I was never satisfied with.

It became my trade mark to give away all of my stuff left and right. I didn't know why I let go of my drawings and paintings so easy. Now I regret that. It would be interesting to see the growth.

Once I happened to tell a guy from my class who worked very hard on his drawing (he wasn't a good draftsman): "Oh Wow! you are doing a lot of progress, buddy, congrats!" I looked at his portfolio and pointed at a piece: "This drawing here is really mature and quite interesting, you achieved volume and air in just a linear drawing."

The guy suddenly goes red, stares at me wide-eyed with anger or confusion I couldn't quite understand...

"Am I saying something wrong?" I asked.

"You're fucking dissing me!" He answered.

"Why?" I wondered.

"This is YOUR drawing," Was the answer: "I took it, that is when I asked you and you gave it to me, don't you remember?"

I didn't recognize, didn't see my signature, as it was overlapping the drawing.

The guy was holding a grudge for this but it didn't turn him into one of my enemies.

  

At some point I am thankful to the teachers for their sneaky methods and experience on how to tame the most unruly and bring them into the art's stable. On the other hand these people were like sadistic fascists who used their special gases on me experimenting, would I survive it and live on.

The bohemian hyped up life only started after the classes at about seven in the evening. This part of the artist's life was full of sex, booze, and drugs, more sex booze drugs and orgies. The art youth was progressive, the sex - communal with the conveniently shared girlfriends and boyfriends.

Strangely the good times didn't concern me anymore now.

There was a small group of idiots who followed their criteria of achievement: to draw and paint a vase with flowers so that it comes to life, right out of the canvas to the carrying hands of the one who painted it. The flowers turned alive would be given to the girl/boyfriend.

The madness of the 4th dimension.

The art group was lead by me and another guy soon (one month later) to disappear forever for the reasons unknown.

After the classes me and few others searched for a studio. Found it. Not my studio. Any studio with the door unlocked.

As usual I would set a still life. Take off my nazi coat.

Set my next canvas on the easel to start quick sketching.

Out of nowhere shows up some dude who was a new student, he was much older, about twenty three, somewhere from Texas and just plain untalented.

He wanted to hang around with "the power-group" to learn.

There were few girls with the ambition to reach the level of a manly hand in creation.

We all usually worked in grave silence and even a slight noise would be extremely annoying.

If a brush would fall it seemed the atomic bomb had exploded somewhere near. We would exchange vicious cursing at the jittery creaking sneezing noise maker.

When you are focusing intensely and can't quite catch the brush stroke to complete the shaping of a form so that the image would turn real and come out of the flat surface the nerves are high strung to the limit.

The last months I just never left the studio, didn't even come outside. Slept on my German coat in the corner. It was veiled with the drapery. I'd wake up in the morning. The doorman was already used to give me the keys knowing that I sleep and work there. It came with a warning that if I am discovered I must tell any story and solemnly kept the secret.

The memories from those years distract me from telling what I want. It's about the event that had closed for me the entry into the forth dimension.

That day I was getting upset over some stupid teases: "What had happened to you!"

Whether the bros wanted to elevate my mental state, or they needed to get my works it had really caused me distraction. I was focusing on my work. Suddenly I hear the sounds of music in the studio. It jumped me: “Are you out of your fucking minds? That asshole doorman will come here."

"No he ain’t gonna."

"Why?"

"He is passed out, we had to carry him away." Was the answer.

"What is going down?" I worried.

"Not much, nothing is going down, we just want some fun. The way it is on here is so buzz-killing."

Was it some holiday, I didn’t know. Holidays passed by me, I didn’t smoke or drink and only worked. What they were saying didn’t reach me.

“Shut down the music. You’re gone but I must sleep here."

"Why must you sleep here?" Asked Lorenzo (nick-named after his personal preferences of the Benzos)

"Hmm, I guess there will be no way of working today?" I asked.

"Working, way working, you gonna make me some home works," Assured me the dude nicknamed Kuz. "For that I will make your sculpture complete."

As interesting as it was to play with the real forms in sculpting I disliked dealing with the clay. Those times I believed the painting to be so much more in gradations, possibilities and complexity. Now I changed my mind to consider any art media possess the unlimited possibilities.

I agreed. Suddenly the guys were fixing to leave and I had to ask: "So? Who will finish building up the sculpture if you're leaving?"

"No worries, will build it up, brb just a quick run for some booze before the stores closed up."

"What booze? Get out of here go to another studio. I work, don’t mess me up."

"No biggie, son, you can rest for once."

It was pointless to argue, they'd already been drunk and I was only getting nervous. My work wasn’t going good at all. I have changed the lighting set up many ways in vein.

Suddenly, out of nowhere Muse appears. A young, very-very attractive girl about eighteen. The returned gang introduced her to me:

"J-Sin, meet her... lets say Nicky."

"Eh, hello Nicky, who and what are you?" were my greetings.

She smiled to everyone and answered: "I will be posing for you today."

"We agreed about everything, will pay the price,” –explained Lorenzo barely moving his tongue, "She is gonna be happy!"

His bag full of bottles made loud clanking noise.

When the drunks got them out I counted six.

“Yes, this is going to be a wild night.” I was thinking what to do now. I approached the model, took off her coat and hanged it, removed her blouse and explained that she can go behind the curtain.

"Hey, hey! What curtain son, what’s with you? She is from the med school, our people!"

I heard the Kuz's inebriated voice. "She is THE model!"

"What -- nude?" I wondered.

"And what did you think, she'd sit covered up in here?" They burst into laughter.

Suddenly I feel elated with the anticipation of the new and amazing subject for the work. I was fed up with the poor set up and the struggle to "find" the good lighting for the gypsum head. How wonderful it turned out that I could make some picturesque oil sketches.

When the model took off her bra, her young breasts, her nipples instantly distract my attention from work.

Shit, I couldn’t focus. Since we hadn’t a glimpse at such models it was too interesting. Could be that something about this evening or the environment was different. First time in a long while the music was playing, the glasses jingled and filled up with wine.

As she posed we were all doing the quick sketching. She removed everything except her panties.

The drunken assholes wouldn’t let me focus.

"Let me finally have a chance to work." I yelled getting distracted.

They seemed to try bargaining: "We brought you the model, hey girl turn around!" Kuz pulled up her skirt and slapped her buddy. "Look at these buns, you've got to do another

drawing for the semester show."

"Boys, you are so bad!" She giggled to Kuz. "I will spank you for being soooo bad!" And she was laughing in most contagious sexy trills of her childish capricious voice.

  

I didn’t understand what these die--hard drunks were doing at the art school, without any talent or interest in art. My former palls in another life that was long forgotten. Today the serious artists who always worked together with me had left the moment this bad company swam by.

Now I was looking at their watery eyes winking at the model. They caressed her things as she reclined on the wooden stage to rest. I wanted to figure out why did they distract me even more now?

I was the same age as the model. I didn’t see her body, to me now it was the model for painting.

It was getting late when the cold winds penetrate the place from the drafty wall size windows. I put on my sweater in the starting freezer. The one meter or the three feet and 33/8 inch walls are like the thermos to absorb and hold the cool temperature. I looked at the laughing bunch who labored on my sculpture.

One was drawing a huge flying dick with wings with a charcoal right on a white wall.

I had finished sketching the figure. I came up to the stage to set up the heater. I asked the model if she could sit some more taking breaks whenever she needs to move.

When she looked at me she was constantly smiling.

"Sure she’ll sit! And she'll lay, right, sweet buns?"

I held my breath working imagining how awesome would be to have such a model every day. With a shaky hand I was working fast as a machine expecting any minute now she would say that she is too cold to sit another minute and she leaves, its all over. I will have to kill her and sit her lifeless body on a chair to complete my work.

“Shit! Shit! Shit!"

The heater I placed caused the red reflexes on the body. I was painting and had to get the color right. So I removed the heater. The model immediately complained about the cold. Kuz brought her a glass of wine asking me why did I remove the heater.

From wine her face flushed red. I tried to adjust the color scale, laying brushstrokes over the whole figure.

Meanwhile the music turned up it was getting real loud.

The model took her break.

I walked after her studying her forms.

"Is something wrong?" She asked.

"Its all right, could you turn this way."

"Oh, I see. Same in our med school, the nut cases," She openly declared to the others when I was on a floor looking from a lower viewpoint.

"Who is this?" She asked: "What kind of a mental is he?"

"Its a disease, but it will pass" – was the answer for her. "Sometimes it is terminal. Not his tho, his will pass, he loves the young girls very much…"

Something from the stupid jokes had reached me.

"Hon, now he needs the medical attention. You are the medic? We are forever in debt to yous for allowing us come to the mortuary and for helping with the dead bodies... What we have here is a zombie. You are the goddess who saves the body as your calling."

What I heard was polluting my pure artistic brain with that life I refused. Now I was paying attention not to the mammary glands but to her breasts. Her back muscles are slightly weak. As I looked over the skeleton the muscles slowly disappeared. No matter how hard I tried to focus my x-rays were weakened. Maybe the electricity turned off inside my head.

"Pour me some," I asked.

Six months of my immaculate virginity and celibacy was broken by a wine glass. The red wine like the blood of innocents was running in my throat filling up the brain that shortly was boiling with vigor. So I said:

"Could you please remove your panties?"

"It wasn’t the deal," protested the model with her eyes glowing like honey.

Lorenzo interrupted her:

"For god’s sake, take of your panties, what is it to you, aren't you a medic?"

"I thought someone here was shy, as for me" She lustfully licked her lips. "Well, of course its nothing."

"Who is shy?" Asked someone.

"Him the weirdo!" She giggled in a very cute bubbly little voice.

"Are you shy?"

"It seems it was me who asked her to remove the panties." I explained.

She just jumped right out of her panties not without pleasure it seemed.

I imagined how to position her, what pose should she take.

"Hey!" I asked Kuz to pour me another glass. He was cheering me on yet reminding that I should first finish the drawing.

"Later," I mumbled turning to the model: "Would you please sit on a chair and spread your pretty legs a little, as much as you wish."

"Hey, Alex, so he is normal?" She asked.

I was far away from normality. A actual girl weaved from the reality. But the process was a transformation with splitting dimensions.

She was turning more real when I touched her to show how to position her legs.

I glimpsed at the red pubic hair seeing the pink flesh of her vaginal lips.

I couldn't focus on my work. Could the “female anatomy” destroy the temple of magic I was erecting for the eight months?

I returned to my easel and continued working. She was fidgeting changing poses uncomfortable this something hurting that... But it was only natural, she was sitting naked on a plain hard wooden chair. She was sliding from one side of the chair to another. I was buzzed from wine and couldn’t work, but I tried to complete my work just to annoy these assholes who screwed up my day. First work was washed off with turpentine and I wiped up the canvas dry with a rag.

I was sketching now not with a charcoal but brushing in umber. It resulted in an interesting tonality and I was captured again. The model squirming on her hard chair complained.

"Yo, why don’t you lay her down, what is she suffering for?" Asked Alex, "Lay her the fuck down, why not."

Right! I thought a little and told her to lay on the stage. Underneath her I spread some drapery.

After few wine glasses I took off my sweater, my cheeks were on fire. Hers too. I unbuttoned my shirt, my blood was boiling, the body was washed with the warmth.

The heater was moved away.

"So true that wine warms you up," she said to Alex.

"Jay, so tell me how to lay her down there. Sit, sit, you poor thingy, I'll assist you" And he jumped on the stage. "Do you want her legs spread this way?" he asked opening

up her legs so that her whole anatomy was showing.

"Is this ok for you?" He winked at me: "Is it good?"

"Oh no, can’t show it like this at the mid-semester show." Thinking some I added: " Let it be, lift her leg a little higher, like this. Turn her head down."

"Like this?" He kissed her on the lips.

"Alex, the fuck you're doing, I don’t have any time."

"Work, keep drawing, go on!" he said. "We won’t disturb you."

I was outraged after I just washed everything off my canvas ready to work, but this wasn't going anywhere. I kept asking Alex what did he mean by not disturbing me when he messed everything up. I heard the girls laughing trills. "For real, he is ill!"

"The sick can be cured." Insisted Alex. "Will hill him." He slurred.

Of course, I own them my very life. If it weren't for them –- that’s it, finito.

Kissing her on the lips and winking at me Alex continued bugging me: “Is this right?”

For like ten minutes I was staring in the infinity in the emptiness… Then I yelled: "Why are you sucking her? Get away from her, let her lay there quietly."

Only to hear some nonsensical mumbling.

"But I want you to work on the position, is this position right?"

"Right, just fuck off of her."

Meanwhile Kuz, I noticed, was taking off his pants. He said: “Let him go fuck himself. Motherfucker is gonna fuck us up today, if he doesn’t want it, so fuck it.”

Now I thought I knew what they wanted from me.

I saw Alex’s naked butt as he laid on the stage, banging the girl and his ass wiggled.

I started sketching their nude asses.

My consciousness was still in the process of transforming.

I thought of how interesting were their poses.

Lorenzo came up to me and took the brushes from my hands placing all in my field easel he closed up.

"Listen, J-man, you’re being a fucking buzzkill. Go draw some vases, fuck off to another studio. You don’t want it. For free?"

I didn't understand him what did he mean. He explained:

"What do you see Alex is doing right now?"

"He is fucking his girlfriend." I said.

Lorenzo continued:

"Whose girlfriend? What we have here is a

scientist, from the med school who is helping us in our artistic quests, to understand the core of anatomy not only from the outside but from the inside. I recommend you, in order to comprehend, as you must know, you can only know the truth from the inside, experiencing the inside, to understand the outside. That’s why I seize the brushes. Here is another glass of wine. Drink!"

I looked at him as a doctor listening to his drunken bullshit.

"The most important thing for you is to understand from the inside. See, you can’t understand it from the outside, it’s not how things are done."

"Yes knowing the internal anatomy helps, take a muscle, body doesn’t exist without muscles." I agreed.

"Hell yeah, yeah… ha ha…that’s what I am going about. Look how Alex is working how he is learning."

I looked at the bare ass's motions back and forth, at the girl who was lifting her legs and actively moving her hips. Alex jumped off, wiped up his cock with the drapery, he also wiped out the girl. “Who is next?”

Kuz was kissing her from one side, when Lorenzo said:

"He worked very hard today, he must learn from the inside. You see, because he just can’t break through the inside."

When Kuz was mounting her, Lorenzo spanked him loudly:

"You can wait, the man needs the muse, get it? Understanding the Muse comes only from the inside.." They all bust into laughter.

Lorenzo nearly helped my cock inside the girl cheering on: "Just do it, little one, everything is gonna be great. Honey, turn him back into a soldier that we've lost."

"The man is gone, the man known yesterday is not the man you meet, forever, around the corner, in London or in the street..." chanted Nick appearing from nowhere. He continued slurring his poems.

Hearing the noise I didn’t know what’s going on as I kissed her breasts.

"Feel the forms." I heard the racket near by as I was buzzing off the wine and licking the girl's body. On the other side Lorenzo had joined in groping her breasts. To be more at ease I moved her body closer to the stage’s edge. I was on top.

I didn't hear any sounds of music, the entry door was covered with the draperies as the orgy just steamed up for the whole night.

I woke up on the stage from loud knocking.

The art students asked me what happened to the busted still life set.

I exhaled my dragon breath to hear no more questions. Took my coat and left the building. Walking the street I met Alex.

"Your face is not yet blushed, your eyes are a bit foggy, can’t say anything after the sleepless night. Like Cures Like."

He grinned getting money out of his pocket. "Let us get some treatment."

We walked to the known spot for aching heads gathering.

 

“ON THE COVER we picture an event which will occur by 1970 when two Apollonauts will descend onto the lunar surface from their LEM spacecraft while their Apollo mothership orbits above. They will spend one day exploring the moon, leave an experiment package on the surface, and then return to earth. Artist John Desatoff at TRW illustrates a momentous scene from historic event.”

 

Above is from the verso of the insert’s cover page.

 

It’s disappointing, infuriating actually, that the first & only time I’ve come across this dramatic and creative work - by one of the most recognized (at least in my world) space flight/Apollo artists - is ONLY because I stumbled upon this beat-up June 19, 1966 LA Times space-themed Sunday edition insert. And ONLY because it happened to be featured on the cover.

WRONG answer.

I should’ve come across this image here: images.nasa.gov/, or a sub-section within it.

Maybe even some sort of online TRW ‘heritage/legacy’ presence. Like the arrogant greed-fueled ‘proprietary’ thing Boeing has. Meh, whatever...right?

 

Maybe it was part of the 1968 Smithsonian Institute’s traveling museum/exhibition entitled “Exploring Space: Paintings by John Desatoff”, which also hopefully, still resides in the Institution's archives.

If so, fantastic, at least with respect to the preservation of the rich visual/artistic history. However, who the hell’s going to see it there? Other than space "historians", archivists, researchers, space art connoisseurs, aficionados & lowly oddballs like me, who’s even aware of its existence? The fingers on one hand - thumb excluded - probably suffice to count the number.

 

20/20 hindsight, but the systematic & methodical digitization of this visual history, by whomever, should've started long long ago. I don't think it would've been that expensive. Tedious & time consuming, absolutely, but that comes with the territory of conscientiously, and hopefully, accurately attempting to preserve history. At the very least, just to have digitized them would’ve been leaning forward. Maybe something a rookie intern, student volunteer, retiree, etc., etc., could've done...idk.

Too late now. Most of the institutional knowledge to draw from is gone. Sadly, I suppose I'll have to take it wherever I can get it.

 

9.75” x 12.75”. I’m pleasantly surprised the colors are still as ‘vivid’ as they are. Speaking of colors, the work was also featured on the cover of the February 1967 issue of "Space World" magazine, with a repulsive monochromatic pink/purple hue. What was Ray Palmer thinking? 😉

 

BTW, while I’m down this particular rabbit hole - good & informative Space World/Ray Palmer reading and more, at:

 

criticalenquiry.org/wp/space-world-issues/

Credit: Critical Enquiry website

Portland, Oregon - September 2018.

 

Minolta SRT303b

Rokkor-X 50 mm f/1.7

Tri-X at 1600 in Acufine.

ha ha - take that November!

 

"Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is damp , drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially when my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street and methodically knocking people's hats off - then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can" -- Herman Melville 'Moby Dick'

My latest trip broke the usual routine, moving Southeast rather than North or West. Visiting the old DRGW in Utah was a itch I needed to scratch. While on property I had time to do some thinking. My thoughts are cheap- fire sale.

 

Utah- it's beautiful, everything I like about photographing in the West. The preferred subject- a train is the ingredient often missing. When you do get a train, good light and good power is often too much to ask.. which can be frustrating. It makes the highs so high, and the lows, well.. low.

 

My advice- adapting and accepting is key, and ignorance is bliss. Forget about what could have been 20-30 years ago and you might find a sliver of joy. As much as I wish I could follow this I can't. For the rest of us, I think a envious stew boils deep inside us. How can you put in 10x the investment and get a tenth of a shot some random guy who pointed his camera in the opposite direction of the sun 40 years ago? I don't mean to boil it down to something so simple, shooting film was a skill which needed investment and practice. But in the same token, at least the railroads ran trains for practice. Those who got a good wedgie with a well composed foreground and background go as walking legends nowadays. In the modern era you can perfect a comp for hours just to piss away the last light- the usual culprit (no crews, notch restrictions, 15,000 ft no fitters, the eternal shitlist) throwing a wrench into the heart of the railroad. The usual ending- you don't get your shot.

 

I have always respected the challenge of railroad photography.. its not just farting around in a meadow shooting flowers. Its a methodical prediction of the weather, travel time, and what the railroad is going to do. When it all comes together, it is truly exhilarating. This challenge has forged all of us into being sharp photographers, capable of some magic when put under pressure. Today there is even more pressure- no trains! Screw those damn traditional shots you can't get anyways- let's do more with less.

 

Is that enough rambling? Here's a humbling shot after talking so high and ho.. a IPP empty heads East in the dying light. 1/400 wasn't fast enough for the descent down the hill West of Green River, UT. And yes, these are the DPU's.

By way of immediate action, a stand must first be made against thought, against mental processes. "I do not know" - it is said - "anything which, when unbridled, uncontrolled, unwatched, untamed, brings such ruin as thought, and I do not know anything which, when bridled, controlled, watched, tamed, brings such benefits as thought."

 

Thought, which everyone lightly says is "mine," is, in reality, only to a very small degree in our power. In the majority of cases, instead of "to think" it would be correct to say "we are thought" or "thought takes place in me." In the normal way, the characteristic of thought is its instability. "Incorporeal" - it is said - "it walks by itself": it "runs hither and thither like an untamed bull." Hard to check, unstable, it runs where it pleases. In general, it is said that, while this body may persist one year, two years, three years or even up to a hundred years and more in its present form, "what we call thought, what we call mind, what we call consciousness arises in one manner, ceases in another; incessantly, night and day"; "it is like a monkey who goes through the forest, and who progresses by seizing one branch, letting go of it, taking hold of another, and so on."

 

The task is to "arrest" thought: to master it and to strengthen the attention; to be able then to say: "Once this thought wandered at its fancy, at its pleasure, as it liked: I today shall hold it completely bridled, as a mahout holds a rut-elephant with his goad."

 

A few explanations.

 

If one day normal conditions were to return, few civilizations would seem as odd as the present one, in which every form of power and dominion over material things is sought, while mastery over one's own mind, one's own emotions and psychic life in general is entirely overlooked. For this reason, many of our contemporaries - particularly our so-called "men of action" - really resemble those crustaceans that are as hard-shelled outside with scabrous incrustations as they are soft and spineless within. It is true that many achievements of modern civilization have been made possible by methodically applied and rigorously controlled thought. This, however, does not alter the fact that most of the "private" mental life of every average and more-than-average man develops today in that passive manner of thought that, as the Buddhist text we have just quoted strikingly puts it, "walks by itself," while, half-unconscious, we look on. Anyone can convince himself of this by trying to observe what goes on in his mind, for example, when leaving his house: he thinks of why he is going out but, at the door, his thoughts turn to the postman and thence to a certain friend from whom news is awaited, to the news itself, to the foreign country where his friend lives and which, in turn, makes him remember that he must do something about his own passport: but his eye notices a passing woman and starts a fresh train of thought, which again changes when he sees an advertisement, and these thoughts are replaced by the various feelings and associations that chase each other during a ride through the town. His thought has moved exactly like a monkey that jumps from branch to branch, without even keep-ing a fixed direction. Let us try, after a quarter of an hour, to remember what we have thought - or, rather, what has been thought in us - and we shall see how diffi¬cult it is. This means that in all these processes and disordered associations our consciousness has been dazed or "absent." Having seen this, let us undertake to follow, without disturbing them, the various mental associations. After only a minute or two we shall find ourselves distracted by a flood of thoughts that have invaded us and that are quite out of control. Thought does not like being watched, does not like being seen. Now this irrational and parasitical development of thought takes up a large part of our normal psychic life, and produces corresponding areas of reduced activity and of reduced self-presence. The state of passivity is accentuated when our thought is no longer merely "spontaneous" and when the mind is agitated by some emotion, some worry, hope, or fear. The degree of consciousness is certainly greater in these cases - but so, at the same time, is that of our passivity.

These considerations may throw some light on the task that is set when one "ceases to go"; one reacts, one aims at being the master in the world of one's own mind. It now seems quite incomprehensible that nearly all men have long since been accustomed to consider as normal and natural this state of irrationality and passivity, where thought goes where it will - instead of being an instrument that enters into action only when necessary and in the required direction, just as we can speak when we wish to, and with a purpose, and otherwise remain silent. In comprehending this "according to reality," we must each decide whether we will continue to put up with this state of affairs.

 

In its fluid, changeable and inconsistent character, normal thought reflects, moreover, the general law of samsāric consciousness. This is why mental control is consid¬ered as the first urgent measure to be taken by one who opposes the "current." In un¬dertaking this task, however, we must not be under any illusions. The dynamis, the subtle force that determines and carries our trains of thought, works from the subconscious. For this reason, to attempt to dominate the thought completely by means of the will, which is bound to thought itself, would almost be like trying to cut air with a sword or to drown an echo by raising the voice. The doctrine, which declares that thought is located in the "cavern of the heart," refers, among other things, to thought considered "organically" and not to its mental and psychological offshoots. Mastery of thought cannot, therefore, be merely the object of a form of mental gymnastics: rather, one must, simultaneously, proceed to an act of conversion of the will and of the spirit; inte¬rior calm must be created, and one must be pervaded by intimate, sincere earnestness.

 

The "fluttering" of thought mentioned in our text is more than a mere simile: it is related to the primordial anguish, to the dark substratum of samsāric life that comes out and reacts since, as soon as it feels that it is seen, it becomes aware of the danger; the condition of passivity and unconsciousness is essential for the development of samsāric being and for the establishment of its existence. This simile illustrates an experience that, in one form or another, is even encountered on the ascetic path.

 

The discipline of constant control of the thought, with the elimination of its automatic forms, gradually achieves what in the texts is called appamada, a term variously translated as "attention," "earnestness," "vigilance," "diligence," or "reflection." It is, in point of fact, the opposite state to that of "letting oneself think," it is the first form of entry into oneself, of an earnestness and of a fervid, austere concentration. When it is understood in this sense, appamāda constitutes the base of every virtue. It is also said: "This intensive earnestness is the path that leads toward the deathless, in the same way that unreflective thought leads, instead, to death. He who possesses that earnestness does not die, while those who have unstable thought are as if already dead." An ascetic "who delights in appamāda - in this austere concentration - and who guards against mental laxity, will advance like a fire, burning every bond, both great and small." He "cannot err." And when, thanks to this energy, all negligence is gone and he is calm, from his heights of wisdom he will look down on vain and agitated beings, "as one who lives on a mountaintop looks down on those who live in the plains."

 

--------

 

excerpt from The Doctrine of Awakening by Julius Evola

 

--------

 

painting by Munch

 

It's always a bit of a gamble heading out in blustery conditions, but after a methodical wait for a number of hours a 20 second burst of light was all that was needed and I could head home a happy man.

By way of immediate action, a stand must first be made against thought, against mental processes. "I do not know" - it is said - "anything which, when unbridled, uncontrolled, unwatched, untamed, brings such ruin as thought, and I do not know anything which, when bridled, controlled, watched, tamed, brings such benefits as thought."

 

Thought, which everyone lightly says is "mine," is, in reality, only to a very small degree in our power. In the majority of cases, instead of "to think" it would be correct to say "we are thought" or "thought takes place in me." In the normal way, the characteristic of thought is its instability. "Incorporeal" - it is said - "it walks by itself": it "runs hither and thither like an untamed bull." Hard to check, unstable, it runs where it pleases. In general, it is said that, while this body may persist one year, two years, three years or even up to a hundred years and more in its present form, "what we call thought, what we call mind, what we call consciousness arises in one manner, ceases in another; incessantly, night and day"; "it is like a monkey who goes through the forest, and who progresses by seizing one branch, letting go of it, taking hold of another, and so on."

 

The task is to "arrest" thought: to master it and to strengthen the attention; to be able then to say: "Once this thought wandered at its fancy, at its pleasure, as it liked: I today shall hold it completely bridled, as a mahout holds a rut-elephant with his goad."

 

A few explanations.

 

If one day normal conditions were to return, few civilizations would seem as odd as the present one, in which every form of power and dominion over material things is sought, while mastery over one's own mind, one's own emotions and psychic life in general is entirely overlooked. For this reason, many of our contemporaries - particularly our so-called "men of action" - really resemble those crustaceans that are as hard-shelled outside with scabrous incrustations as they are soft and spineless within. It is true that many achievements of modern civilization have been made possible by methodically applied and rigorously controlled thought. This, however, does not alter the fact that most of the "private" mental life of every average and more-than-average man develops today in that passive manner of thought that, as the Buddhist text we have just quoted strikingly puts it, "walks by itself," while, half-unconscious, we look on. Anyone can convince himself of this by trying to observe what goes on in his mind, for example, when leaving his house: he thinks of why he is going out but, at the door, his thoughts turn to the postman and thence to a certain friend from whom news is awaited, to the news itself, to the foreign country where his friend lives and which, in turn, makes him remember that he must do something about his own passport: but his eye notices a passing woman and starts a fresh train of thought, which again changes when he sees an advertisement, and these thoughts are replaced by the various feelings and associations that chase each other during a ride through the town. His thought has moved exactly like a monkey that jumps from branch to branch, without even keep-ing a fixed direction. Let us try, after a quarter of an hour, to remember what we have thought - or, rather, what has been thought in us - and we shall see how diffi¬cult it is. This means that in all these processes and disordered associations our consciousness has been dazed or "absent." Having seen this, let us undertake to follow, without disturbing them, the various mental associations. After only a minute or two we shall find ourselves distracted by a flood of thoughts that have invaded us and that are quite out of control. Thought does not like being watched, does not like being seen. Now this irrational and parasitical development of thought takes up a large part of our normal psychic life, and produces corresponding areas of reduced activity and of reduced self-presence. The state of passivity is accentuated when our thought is no longer merely "spontaneous" and when the mind is agitated by some emotion, some worry, hope, or fear. The degree of consciousness is certainly greater in these cases - but so, at the same time, is that of our passivity.

These considerations may throw some light on the task that is set when one "ceases to go"; one reacts, one aims at being the master in the world of one's own mind. It now seems quite incomprehensible that nearly all men have long since been accustomed to consider as normal and natural this state of irrationality and passivity, where thought goes where it will - instead of being an instrument that enters into action only when necessary and in the required direction, just as we can speak when we wish to, and with a purpose, and otherwise remain silent. In comprehending this "according to reality," we must each decide whether we will continue to put up with this state of affairs.

 

In its fluid, changeable and inconsistent character, normal thought reflects, moreover, the general law of samsāric consciousness. This is why mental control is consid¬ered as the first urgent measure to be taken by one who opposes the "current." In un¬dertaking this task, however, we must not be under any illusions. The dynamis, the subtle force that determines and carries our trains of thought, works from the subconscious. For this reason, to attempt to dominate the thought completely by means of the will, which is bound to thought itself, would almost be like trying to cut air with a sword or to drown an echo by raising the voice. The doctrine, which declares that thought is located in the "cavern of the heart," refers, among other things, to thought considered "organically" and not to its mental and psychological offshoots. Mastery of thought cannot, therefore, be merely the object of a form of mental gymnastics: rather, one must, simultaneously, proceed to an act of conversion of the will and of the spirit; inte¬rior calm must be created, and one must be pervaded by intimate, sincere earnestness.

 

The "fluttering" of thought mentioned in our text is more than a mere simile: it is related to the primordial anguish, to the dark substratum of samsāric life that comes out and reacts since, as soon as it feels that it is seen, it becomes aware of the danger; the condition of passivity and unconsciousness is essential for the development of samsāric being and for the establishment of its existence. This simile illustrates an experience that, in one form or another, is even encountered on the ascetic path.

 

The discipline of constant control of the thought, with the elimination of its automatic forms, gradually achieves what in the texts is called appamada, a term variously translated as "attention," "earnestness," "vigilance," "diligence," or "reflection." It is, in point of fact, the opposite state to that of "letting oneself think," it is the first form of entry into oneself, of an earnestness and of a fervid, austere concentration. When it is understood in this sense, appamāda constitutes the base of every virtue. It is also said: "This intensive earnestness is the path that leads toward the deathless, in the same way that unreflective thought leads, instead, to death. He who possesses that earnestness does not die, while those who have unstable thought are as if already dead." An ascetic "who delights in appamāda - in this austere concentration - and who guards against mental laxity, will advance like a fire, burning every bond, both great and small." He "cannot err." And when, thanks to this energy, all negligence is gone and he is calm, from his heights of wisdom he will look down on vain and agitated beings, "as one who lives on a mountaintop looks down on those who live in the plains."

 

--------

 

excerpt from The Doctrine of Awakening by Julius Evola

 

--------

 

woodcut by Munch

  

While attempting to photograph the architecture of this town, people kept getting in the frame. This mail carrier went about her job methodically and precisely while the streets teemed with people. I found great interest in how one block can have non-stop Bourbon St revelry and the next block is a shockingly quiet residential setting. The Quarter is partying but I see people living there too.