Come Walk With Me In The Open Air Art Gallery of The Enchanted Garden In Jodoigne – YouTube
Tag: art
The Water Gardens Of Annevoie
The Water Gardens of Annevoie 2021 – YouTube
Not Here Nor There
This land, although not my native land,
Will be remembered forever.
And the sea’s lightly iced,
Unsalty water.
The sand on the bottom is whiter than chalk,
The air is heady, like wine,
And the rosy body of the pines
Is naked in the sunset hour.
And the sunset itself on such waves of ether
That I just can’t comprehend
Whether it is the end of the day, the end of the world,
Or the mystery of mysteries in me again.
―
Sunset In My Heart
She was a ray of sunshine, a warm summer rain, a bright fire on a cold winter’s day. ―
Wabi-Sabi
asymmetry, roughness, simplicity, economy, austerity, modesty, intimacy.
quirky, understated, withered, unique.
interesting, fascinating, beautiful.
imperfect, impermanent, and incomplete.
In short, we are all wabi-sabi.
Wabi-sabi nurtures all that is authentic by acknowledging three simple realities: nothing lasts, nothing is finished, and nothing is perfect.
How’s that for a starting point for tolerance and acceptance?
Flawed. We all are.
Respect to unpredictable limitations of imperfect reliability, limited mortality and inevitable changes.
Wisdom in natural simplicity.
Windmills Of Your Mind
Round like a circle in a spiral, like a wheel within a wheel
Never-ending or beginning on an ever spinning reel
Like a snowball down a mountain, or a carnival balloon
Like a carousel that’s turning running rings around the moon
Like a clock whose hands are sweeping past the minutes of its face
And the world is like an apple whirling silently in space
Like the circles that you find in the windmills of your mind!
Like a tunnel that you follow to a tunnel of its own
Down a hollow to a cavern where the sun has never shone
Like a door that keeps revolving in a half-forgotten dream
Or the ripples from a pebble someone tosses in a stream
Like a clock whose hands are sweeping past the minutes of its face
And the world is like an apple whirling silently in space
Like the circles that you find in the windmills of your mind!
Keys that jingle in your pocket, words that jangle in your head
Why did summer go so quickly, was it something that you said?
Lovers walking along a shore and leave their footprints in the sand
Is the sound of distant drumming just the fingers of your hand?
Pictures hanging in a hallway and the fragment of a song
Half remembered names and faces, but to whom do they belong?
When you knew that it was over you were suddenly aware
That the autumn leaves were turning to the color of her hair!
Like a circle in a spiral, like a wheel within a wheel
Never-ending or beginning on an ever spinning reel
As the images unwind, like the circles that you find
In the windmills of your mind!
[source: LyricFind]
The Joker
Contrary to popular belief, I don’t want to rock the boat, the boat is f—ing rocked. ~ Joaquin Phoenix
Someone asked me if I have seen The Joker yet and I answered no. In my mind, the no is in reality never. I don’t like Joaquin Phoenix. I don’t like him because I love his brother. And compared to River Phoenix Joaquin not only pales but totally disappears. Not only in appearance but in talents. Why on earth he has to die? The brother I mean. It could have been Joaquin instead.
I know… I know… Cruel. But that is how I feel.
We all know he won the Oscar and the Bafta and the Golden Globe etc. etc. I am aware of his out of the box speeches but still, I am not convinced. I saw some of his performances (by accident if they play them on television I will watch him for a while to see what he got) but each time it reminds me of what he is lacking compared to his brother. He doesn’t have the looks of River, he doesn’t have the charisma, he doesn’t have the natural acting abilities, he doesn’t have the aura and he doesn’t have the talents. He could probably act (or otherwise he will not win all those awards) and he probably is okay as a person but still, I don’t like him. Watching him up there on the stage delivering his speech I thought: It could have been River. It could have been River accepting those awards and delivering those speeches because we all know how great an actor he was. A unique and promising talent that had been taken away so soon before it could flourish. What a waste! What a pity! Life is so unfair!
If River lives, there would probably never been a Joaquin (as an actor) He will forever be living in the shadow of his more talented brother. And I probably will not dislike him this much. But as it is, every time I see him, every time he won an award, I think of his dead brother and what could have been. Mea Culpa Joaquin, but you cannot hold a candle to River. Truly not.
Self-Portrait
”She was broken but never hopeless; alone but never lonely. Her eyes reflected pain but projected courage. She was a beautiful paradox.”
If I’m going to paint my self-portrait, I want the end result to evoke these kinds of thoughts from the viewers. I want the image to radiate strength, complexity of character, vulnerability, compassion, and life experience. Beauty for me is more than looks alone but what can you see behind it, what the eyes tell you, how the overall picture affects you. Does it make you feel something? I believe that even inanimate objects have souls. Good art for me is if it has the power to make people lose themselves and imagine other worlds, different lives, a good art are the ones that tell stories.
A Garden Is Its Own Universe
Sometimes since I’ve been in the garden I’ve looked up through the trees at the sky and I have had a strange feeling of being happy as if something was pushing and drawing in my chest and making me breathe fast. Magic is always pushing and drawing and making things out of nothing. Everything is made out of magic, leaves and trees, flowers and birds, badgers and foxes and squirrels and people. So it must be all around us. In this garden – in all the places. ~ Frances Hodgson Burnett
Stairway To Heaven
What curious structures one encounters when one dares to venture further away from one’s cave.
D. my partner in crime ascending to nowhere in particular.
And…
… people who don’t dream, who don’t have any kind of imaginative life, they must… they must go nuts. I can’t imagine that…
Learn The Rules Like A Pro So You Can Break Them Like An Artist.
Describe your sorrows and desires, the thoughts that pass through your mind and your belief in some kind of beauty – describe all these with heartfelt, silent, humble sincerity and, when you express yourself, use the things around you, the images from your dreams, and the objects that you remember. If your everyday life seems poor, don’t blame it; blame yourself; admit to yourself that you are not enough of a poet to call forth its riches; because for the creator, there is no poverty and no poor, indifferent place. And even if you found yourself in some prison, whose walls let in none of the world’s sounds – wouldn’t you still have your childhood, that jewel beyond all price, that treasure house of memories? Turn your attention to it. Try to raise up the sunken feelings of this enormous past; your personality will grow stronger, your solitude will expand and become a place where you can live in the twilight, where the noise of other people passes by, far in the distance. – And if out of this turning-within, out of this immersion in your own world, poems come, then you will not think of asking anyone whether they are good or not. Nor will you try to interest magazines in these works: for you will see them as your dear natural possession, a piece of your life, a voice from it. A work of art is good if it has arisen out of necessity. That is the only way one can judge it.”
―
The Sweet Sound Of Basil
It must have felt woefully out of place
like the refugee placing a bowl of water safely
on his windowsill, front row seats
the spectacle: the moon reflects a stolen
memory
Also peculiar, the soul whose words want
so badly, but don’t answer to the self-portrait of
kings, whilst these fingertips understandably
caress: the land cannot belong, the land longs to be
rooted
That’s how we became the gardener and his basil
green power in between
Our sound is loud and clearly
wickedly misplaced.
(My only son K, wrote this poem)
MY OWN PRIVATE IDAHO 
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