rebecca posner

pshh, whatever (a rhyme for vastness)

2011-12-18T13:01:00.001-05:00

The cool human creatures

The hot mud

The blurring of features

A sudden thud

Hangover? Dream-time?

I’m praying to air

I don’t know what is mine

and I couldn’t less care.

action/reaction/inertia

2011-12-16T11:53:00.000-05:00

I am a page of a physics book

it is very interesting to be me

but rather dry to read about

it would be much more fun

to discover me in lab

I suppose you should wear some gloves

so that we do not create unwanted reactions

on your skin and such

that is

if you intend to be an objective observer

but that is your decision

there is a fine line between science

and the other stuff

that is experience

that is the illegal crossing of the Mexican border

that is unprovable

but very understandable

in the right light of course

of course

(something about a horse)

(drums…)

(intertitle: The End)

New Year

2011-09-28T21:46:00.002-04:00

Expanding galaxies, black holes etc
Moishe's moving, manhattan mini storage
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Monologue for a puppet (in response to the question, "what do you do?")

2011-09-23T17:55:00.002-04:00

I'm freakin' out, bout time for emotional conversion, fear to folly, get at the moment of conversion, it is a tension without hatred greed it is hunger without expectation it is set in motion unparalysis it is original it is I'm trying very hard stop trying so hard stop feeling so hard it is soft and strong and part of everything. freakin'. I am my own monster you are my sunshine I am the words around me search for voices everything and everything and everything else you you you you I steal I rape I have been where you are I am a deity I am the wayward son I am a universe with ambiguous stars rotating centers bubbling over with circles scientists draw straight lines straight lines they connect me to me and I am tied up in a ball I am splayed out on the table I am dead I am ALIVE I am flesh digesting flesh I am blood tissue skin I am forget about me forget about me I will not have to speak I am
on my cell phone I am long gone bone home e.t. See, I am pop snap crackling culture I am rejecting my own body alien alien alien conspiracy theory I am always never sometimes searching home.

the middle path

2011-08-25T18:06:00.002-04:00

what is not hollow?

2011-08-24T22:56:00.001-04:00

conscious-un-conscious

2011-08-24T22:54:00.000-04:00

What is it

In the filth

Hush.

Reinvent

The wish

Is the fear of fly

Dying

Or is it me

(I am approximating)

Admiring the cracks

In the ego

Better from afar?

Does not matter

There is a happenstance

In the filth.

2011-08-15T13:15:00.001-04:00

whenever i'm not with myself, people ask me where i am

2011-08-06T12:00:00.002-04:00

a question of publication

wordplay

-alia

2011-08-02T22:03:00.000-04:00

the mutants are all trying

and stuck in holes

sometimes.

they're everywhere.

(thank god
you understand)

reel

2011-06-28T14:55:00.000-04:00

images of the body

(your body)

a room full of spinning mirrors

2011-06-28T14:49:00.001-04:00

have ideas

they'll give you prizes

and let all

your dreams

come almost true

dream logic - "onionheart"

2011-06-19T09:29:00.001-04:00

man on the fuse-ball table has a metal bar through his chest. it pushes on his heart, which is an onion, so the onion gets pushed from his chest into his belly, where it peels because of all the acid, and that's why he's always crying.

Templates of being (a list of ideas)

2011-06-15T23:53:00.004-04:00

He has a heart made of tangled hair strands. Each is attached to the scalp of a different lover. When they move, he dances and screams.

She is falling down stairs/walking on piano keys.

They are making love on either end of a see-saw.

There is a sphere (about 15 inches in diameter) of uninhabitable empty space attached to the front side of her left hip. There is a magnetic charge around the space prohibiting any object to permeate the area of that sphere. Sometimes she knocks things over.

2011-06-07T22:09:00.002-04:00

syes

npr

2011-06-07T22:03:00.002-04:00

bah-da-dah-dah-DAH-da-da-dah

body awareness

2011-06-01T19:06:00.004-04:00

Connect the head to the rest of the body

Fill it up with air

Hold

And release

(There are eyes on every face

I see)

shrines

2011-05-08T00:22:00.001-04:00

on nature

2011-05-04T13:51:00.000-04:00

2011-05-01T12:11:00.000-04:00

so i told the world, "have at me, already" and she did

2011-04-25T12:49:00.001-04:00

i'd like it all, please.

2011-04-09T10:44:00.000-04:00

verb, definition: to create a chaos channel in the morphing hole

2011-04-08T19:42:00.004-04:00

UN-EXPECT

2011-04-08T19:34:00.004-04:00

Pronoun Shop

Push on something

“ other “

than you.

Hiccup

Lose your mine

in the mined, feeled,

sought.

april is coming april is coming

2011-03-21T12:11:00.000-04:00

rebirth rebirth rebirth wall graffitti! mouse in a hole! heeeere weee cooommmmee...!

(t)hat is where the heart is

2011-02-22T14:33:00.003-05:00

2011-02-22T14:15:00.009-05:00

It was the feather creature with teenage feelings that made the first apology (sung (almost) falsetto)

“I am sorry for letting the cat out of the bag,

I am sorry it got my tongue,

I am sorry I don’t speak your tongue,

I am very sorry for asking you to dine with me past mealtime,
and sorry you accepted,

BUT REALLY I’m sorry that I haven’t done that thing

So I can really be sorry to you

And you can really feel sorry too that I’m sorry to you

And together we’d be forever, pout for doubt,
lamenting our bodies
and mourning our minds,
keeping watch while the other sleeps...”

And with each pitiful utterance of regret, the feather creature moved closer to her, slithering (almost), along the floor of the gloom.

And the dragon monster made of mud, wide eyes caked with dirt, took him in her swampy arms and together they wept and wept and wept (regret got wet), exchanging sorrows, and altogether forgetting the ceiling, walls and windows, forgetting even the cat and the tongues, forgetting most gravely of all: the beautiful open fiery sky.

Studio Walls (photos from a telephone)

2011-02-18T14:10:00.002-05:00

accidental landscapes...

mural by Brooklyn who-knows-whats, Greenpoint Open Studios '10

mud hare krishna

2011-02-08T21:59:00.000-05:00

today (we are)

2011-02-06T17:33:00.005-05:00

Feather creature

with

Teenage feelings

and

The Dragon Monster

Made of mud, made of mud

Made of mu-uh-uh-d.

stomach growl translation

2011-01-19T00:11:00.001-05:00

Where there was a hair-burning ritual to remind folks that they are already dead, we found out that the creaking is the house itself and I asked if I am caged or if I am the cage? to which the aching answered YOU MUST REPENT or i will eat myself at once, not knowing that was in fact already the case.

2011-01-03T00:16:00.002-05:00

a baby's first words
dust in dinosaur footprints
what was the question?

2010 airout

2011-01-02T18:00:00.002-05:00

a discarded to-do list from a forgotten but well-equipped and in fact imaginary queen

2010-12-28T16:18:00.004-05:00

It is as if I were a dancer... Mick chant chant chant
Tout est possible.
I have chosen
every fucking detail
I have laid down
(and I have been laid down)
the laws
of physics, and other
general consensi
here as a gridwork

Who can write me a mathematical formula
to describe the relationship between x dollars
and the realness of things?

love/light meets the chemical shadow

2010-12-28T16:09:00.002-05:00

We are cyborgs! We spoon for love!

2010-12-20T15:31:00.002-05:00

something about a "false case of continuity"

body awareness

2010-12-19T09:12:00.005-05:00

sometimes you be
that electricity in the tips
of fingers and in my
invisible tail

body awareness

2010-12-19T08:48:00.001-05:00

irreplaceable belly ache

you are so funny and you're mine

wings made of dinosaur bones

you do not make me fly

but can make me feel so beautiful

could it be that this heart-shaped

computer chip inside my chest

was invented by a poodle?

skin made of cellophane

how the lid touches the eyeball

someone has been here before

when it rains like this it is best

to come and stay inside.

body awareness

2010-12-18T18:58:00.002-05:00

maybe
it's only breath against bone

We live in a land called Limbo

2010-12-06T22:30:00.001-05:00

This is one o' them old railroad towns
whose tracks run
from Form to Formless, stopping only
from Time to Time.

Fast as you can, baby, hop it. Hop it while you can.

2010-12-01T20:23:00.000-05:00

Gypsies bleeding perfume
chanting from the underground

empty your hospital beds
make way for the Pirate Ship
caravan invisible thirsts horizon

a new toy

2010-11-28T23:41:00.000-05:00

breath haiku

2010-10-17T22:59:00.000-04:00

floating in moment
of discomfort it is sweet
like fruit water envelop

it is like bubbles
the sinking effervescence
the ride the show the whole damned and beautiful thing.

New work on exhibit!

2010-10-11T17:00:00.000-04:00

A new painting will be part of a show titled Paradiso Contrapasso at Observatory in Gowanus. Sister gallery to the Morbid Anatomy collection, the place is haven to all things obscura. It should be an interesting show. Please come for wine and art-in-purgatory at Thursday's opening, 8pm.

Details: http://morbidanatomy.blogspot.com/2010/10/new-exhibition-at-observatory-paradiso.html

ah hem (a note to self)

2010-10-04T01:00:00.000-04:00

If you would reach the edge of this world (let us pretend this world has edges), you would find a gaping hole of light..

You are sure you have been here before, in a fetal dream perhaps. It is an ever-mutating myth-making landscape, where pain and pleasure unite in one excruciating dance. Life and death change places. Fetish is a phoenix rising. Here, where all the desires of all the lifetimes collect, sustain, manifest infinitesimal, all and nothing is jest.

You've made this yourself, my beautiful friend, which is exactly why you may notice that you are eating your own tail... you light/dark magic human thing.

Contrapasso in (after-) life

2010-09-26T08:45:00.001-04:00

bone-crushing dance
feather-caging song
glukupikron hunger
i cannot (but) eat

voicemail 12am.

2010-09-22T23:34:00.000-04:00

why do you want to ANNOY YOURSELF so much?
it's worth the laugh. this artist's confession.

for wcw, for one

2010-09-22T21:41:00.000-04:00

i've been
back to the
ice box, plum
season is over.
but i will look
for peaches. this
is only just-

to say they'll
be there tomorrow
juicy and sweet,
yes, and cold.

2010-09-18T18:45:00.001-04:00

sex magic dangerbites
for
break
fast

make it up
make it last
just make it, baby

Let's.

indian summer sunburn! sweat soaked lashes!
just don't make your excuses
on my refrigerator door

2010-09-14T23:06:00.000-04:00

an old idea

2010-06-06T01:00:00.000-04:00

repeat patterns, walk in circles. unravel the cocoon.

a new idea

2010-06-05T23:12:00.000-04:00

draw pictures while sitting on various playground furniture (i.e. slide, swing, see-saw...).

a casual something

2010-05-20T01:36:00.000-04:00

from the twists
of memory
(resembling an overripe mango)
the taboo of incest
the taste of blood
the smell of shit,
housed together in saccharine mush
sticky strings and that sweet (sweet!) mush
there is a rumbling.

we get close
just to watch it happen
we travel through time
skin pupils heartbeat

for the trip we must devolve into simpler forms

becoming BEASTS
miracles
bound to extinction

becoming SKELETONS
who do rattly love dances
on the dusty surface of waterless orbs
who are made of dust themselves
who are hollow
(their bodies are cages)
who are free
(they may laugh at emptiness)
who may laugh
(because they are free)

life snippit

2010-05-01T03:20:00.000-04:00

ME: Man, I need to go see some art.

MY ROOMMATE: Man, there's this chick I want to bang and I think I'm gonna hang out with her tomorrow.

this is indeed perfect.

second reads are the best

2010-04-26T13:39:00.000-04:00

Re-reading God of Small Things... Arundhati Roy.
On entering a sacred dance after it's started:
"It didn't matter that the story had begun because kathakali discovered long ago that the secret of the Great Stories is that they have no secrets. The Great Stories are the ones you have heard and want to hear again. The ones you can enter anywhere and inhabit comfortably. They don't deceive you with thrills or trick endings. They don't surprise you with the unforeseen. They are as familiar as the house you live in. Or the smell of your lovers skin. You know how they end, yet you listen as though you don't. In the way that although you know that one day you will die, you live as though you won't. In the Great Stories you know who lives, who dies, who finds love, who doesn't. And yet you want to know again."

Fear is the cancer.

2010-04-17T14:23:00.000-04:00

Yesterday was one of those spring days that earns the season its name. It was a day that recoiled, temperatures bouncing back to a subtler level that surprised the bare arms and exposed toes who proudly made their season's debut just days before. A reverberating coil.

The Hasidic community that occupies an entire half of the large converted-factory building in which I live remained on their warm weather kick, with their dozens of children playing in the courtyard that seperates the Hasidic quarters from the rest of the building. It is completely cut off from the street, a boon to their attempts at isolation within a city. I had my window open and was peeking through my bamboo plants with my roommate,Bree, watching them play. They had an intricate slush enterprise going on in one corner of the courtyard, which was freckled with broken toys and other debris. It was hard for me to judge their ages, dressed up as they are, like little adults, and this fascinated me. Despite their strict apparel and certain mimickings of their adult world, they were still acting like children. I could see their little imaginations carrying them afloat on this too-cold-for-slushies day.

Amid the hipsters-versus-Hasids drama that infects North Brooklyn, I have a desire to see something beyond the cold gazes I receive riding in the much-debated bike lanes of South Williamsburg. (Sometimes I feel like I'm riding along the Gaza wall). When encountering new or different cultures, I often connect most easily to children. They are closer to pure humanity and our cultural differences are novelties to be marveled at, not brittle roadblocks like too often is the case with adults. When I finally waved to a pair of girls coyly eyeing us in my window, a flow of Hasidic children came to greet us. They seemed delighted for the interaction. We made each other laugh. They gave us slushies that were too frozen to drink. I showed them the drawings I was working on, of characters from Arundhati Roy's God of Small Things. It was really quite beautiful, this interaction. Both sides were humanized, refreshed. For some moments, I didn't feel the sadness I usually feel when I observe this group from a distance.

I left the window for a moment to search for animal drawings (at the request of one little boy), when I heard a bustle outside. Bree witnessed him emerge from the building. An old Hasidic man, bearded and hunched, in heavy black clothing and a hat ran out like a charging bull. An elder. I rushed to the window. The children rushed away. In fear. In complete fear, they huddled and we watched as this man performed a tirade, screaming in Hebrew and chasing children like pigeons, throwing things, kicking children violently. He was reprimanding them for interacting with us. It was like a dark cloud passing over. It was frightful.

Shocked and shaken, we watched the building's custodian make circles with his trash cart in the gray, empty courtyard. A few of the children waved at us through window curtains. The slushies were nearly defrosted.

april, a re-opening

2010-04-07T01:30:00.000-04:00

Here is to
th rise of spring
          a chocolate Jesus
wrapped in purple
foil,
            the melting
of ice cubes
tastes like licorice
               (bittersweet),
dangerous is delicate

t h e s e d a y s

the plates are shifting
on our big green dinner table
where the guests are all circus
performers. they share one bathtub.

our tight ropes are crossing.
we each grow eight hairy legs.
we pluck and pull, we intertwine,
we spit and blow, we

pluck.

one.

string.

the flood begins!

string. two.

        it's harp string dominoes!
it's tangled dental floss, laced through
HEADS          HEARTS          LOINS
we're dead on the embroidery ring
we're climbing through root systems
(and on and on)
it's eating us, we're fucking it
(and on and on)
we love this, it's birth, it's death,
it's never happened before, it's happening
again, it's happening again, it's comedy,
it's everything else, it has no end. now.

now.

Look at yourself.

You are a cowboy on ice-skates.
You are a balancing act.
You live inside the belly of a giant
who-knows-what.
You are reading a book that spans a year.
Its words keep time.
They're watching you unfold.

Go see this!

2010-02-26T16:25:00.000-05:00

Boston Folk! A brilliant artist lives among you. His initials are CC. Go to his show. I'm gonna do may damnedest to make it.

Dis is da link:
Corey Cocoran-- Half-Life

moving pictures i like

2010-02-26T16:20:00.000-05:00

Admittedly yanked from NP's facebook post, these short videos have a lot I like and am thinking about right now. color, fantasy, depth, dark humor... and beauuuuuuty!

click heahhh:
surreal animations

2010-02-17T13:34:00.000-05:00

Here's a thought

2010-02-17T09:16:00.000-05:00

Here's a thought: maybe the main problem most artists face is an obligating sentiment that work and productivity have nothing to do with pleasure. maybe that's just wrong.

(Patti talks about feeling the weight of sin when she stole as a young girl)

Too Narcissistic Epilogue

2010-02-17T01:54:00.000-05:00

I don't know what Patti Smith thinks about the internet, but today I read the first 200 pages of her memoir of her relationship with Robert Mapplethorpe (Just Kids), and she's reminding me that some majority of artistic production is an inward dive. Easy, no, but a beautiful one.

Patti=hero of the moment.

patti covers dylan

I am Too Narcissistic for the Internet

2010-02-17T01:17:00.000-05:00

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holla atcha! another one for feb.

2010-02-10T23:50:00.000-05:00

an inside-outside haiku

let it manifest
like newtonian physics
with equal forces

February Falls Hard

2010-02-10T16:39:00.000-05:00

snowpocalypse! love it.

click on this, please. it makes so much sense.

i'm humbled.

On the true purpose of art. A story.

2010-02-10T15:07:00.000-05:00

Once upon a time, after a stint of research and fascination with cult phenomenom, I painted a large-scale oil painting of Charles Manson. Recently, a lovely little carrier pigeon with the initials MS drove down some supplies and paintings from days of yore that were housed in my parents' basement. La piece de resistance was this:

Now, what is a girl to do with a giant painting of Charles Manson?
we thought to ourselves...

Hmmmm. We should probably hang it on our roommate Nolan's door so that when he wakes up in the morning, he sees this:

How frightening! So we got to prankin'...

And we made Nolan a high fiber breakfast, just like Charlie would want.

And, knowing that we were giving Nolan the most creepy magical real-live installation breakfast-art experience of his life, we smiled and felt our work was done.

recipe for brlliance

2010-02-06T13:37:00.000-05:00

-upon waking, yoga or other such engagement with muscle memories

-black coffee and/or green tea

-this http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N1tTN-b5KHg

and/or

-this http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rCtzQ6KbWWY

-self-cleansing activities

-eat something. preferably something with interesting texture and color.

-read something

-go somewhere far away from other people (redhook). on the way, talk to everyone you can.

-write it all down in a creepy little notebook

-mix well, make art and tada! sledgehammer.

maps maps maps maps

2010-02-04T16:27:00.000-05:00

Inspiration du moment for the next miniseries in the playing cards. Conquistador maps of South America circa 1578-1586. Look at how some of these focus on land and existing culture while some are really just maps of churches (which obviously weren't there before the Spanish). Some look like fantasy to me. Also they're goddamn beautiful.

February Manifesto in Haiku Form

2010-02-01T21:46:00.000-05:00

You are meant for things
like re-reading epic works
and early rising

YOU ARE THE FIRE MONTH
housed in ice feathers
peter gabriel

panorama

2010-01-30T20:31:00.000-05:00

he's king of his domain

brainstorms from a saturday below zero.

2010-01-30T18:15:00.000-05:00

and another color crush:

I'm re-reading The Wind-up Bird Chronicle. It was fun looking back at old posts about it from the first time I read it. Even more saturated with mind-blowing moments of wonderment on the second time around.

everybody you meet becomes a part of you

2010-01-25T15:28:00.000-05:00

color crushes

2010-01-19T00:17:00.000-05:00

watercolor on lightbox

watercolor--color play

citrus glow

fleshy

beautiful skins

love between bowls

blue and orange------black and magenta

creepy and colorful

On Karma and Emptiness from the Points of View of a Brooklyn Whore and the Whitney Museum

2010-01-10T23:33:00.000-05:00

     I've been trying to figure this out. A coincidence of sorts. Two mornings in a row, I run into these ladies. First, it's a Friday. She's sitting in the booth next to me at a coffeeshop in Chelsea. She's not pretty but there's something beautiful in her face; she looks Native American, with high cheekbones and sandy coloring. Broad shoulders. Large, tough hands. This ain't your run-of-the-mill dame if you catch my drift. It's 7:30 in the morning and her phone keeps ringing. "Yea? Have I seen you before? What are you looking to get into?" Her voice is self-consciously sweet. Seductive and defensive at once. "Well, I'm not free until later. Not even at home now. Call me around noon, k?" Phone rings twice more and she has a similar conversations with other apparent clients.
     Mid-morning the next day, a Saturday, I'm in a Chinese bakery in Besonhurst, Brooklyn. The place is filled with Asian clientele, chowing on taro snacks and tea. Aside from me there are only 3 non-Asian customers, three white women--their obese bodies housed in sweat suits, one of them rests her arm on a walker-cane, they look older than they are, I'm sure, pale faces, one with eye-liner smeared on her lower lids--broadcasting from their corner table in drippy Brooklyn accents. "And then he wanted me to do him." "Oh to hell with him. You gotta get your money before anything." I'll stop here before I offend the children, but do know that the word "rectum" came up several times before I had paid for my red bean bun and coffee...

    A bit of anecdotal entertainment, yes. It's a wild world we live in.

     But also.

Today, I met no apparent prostitutes. I went to the Whitney Museum of Art and to a Buddhist discussion on karma and emptiness. And something about today makes me want to understand yesterday.

I remember something Professor LG once said to me: "Everyone you meet becomes a part of you." Couldn't that be true for every moment of experience?

According to karmic theory, the present moment is a culmination of all that's happened in the past. And actually, the present moment is not really happening at all. It is a movement of my mind. It's all a projection. The three Besonhurst whores belong as much to my mind as they do to the Chinese bakery. But I'm going backwards. If the three Besonhurst whores are somehow part of my mind and everything I experience is, in part, a projection of my mind, then Georgia O'Keefe's abstract paintings must take it up the ass! No, I jest, I jest.

I find O' Keefe's work to be anything but licentious. In fact, it shows restraint, discipline. She is aiming towards something. It is neat and intuitive. How she carved things down to their essences. She was pointed. Never indulgent. Completely unafraid. She said she hesitated to show her work, because to her it was so real. But nobody else could see what it was. This resonated. We are always painting what we see but we don't see the same things. Because "real" involves an excursion into the essence of things. Some detail. Or specific quality. It involves going to the depths of that thing. And there it feels real, at the extreme of experience. And there, at the very same place where it feel real to one person, it becomes unrecognizable to another. My experience is always going to be abstract to you, just as the three Besonhurst whores were nothing but abstractions to me. I only know color, shape and sound. They are moments in an ever-evolving pattern.

Georgia O'Keeffe Abstraction 1926

in retrospect: a love confession

2009-12-28T20:04:00.001-05:00

Dear 2009,

You are not who you say you are, but I never hold that against anyone.

You really surprised me, you know that? I mean, you never gave me swine flu, you inspired an impossibly cynical brand of political idealism, and you looked good in suspenders. I even enjoyed your February.

You were slightly awkward and constantly changing. You put up a good fight. You flirted with disaster. You teetered on daring, 2009.

I'll bet you shoplifted as a teenager...

Maybe this is a good time to tell you that I love you, 2009. It's strange, I know, because you weren't always very nice. No not at all. You were cold to me around your friends. You rarely returned my phone calls. But it was those times when we could spend a moment alone, just the two of us, that you captured my heart. You would tell me the most marvelous secrets, 2009! Like about men being delicate flowers, about ancient wisdom in new dance moves, about the small and the quiet... You talked about all the possible lives I could live and I couldn't help but trust you. You triple-double-dared me on several occasions and I always fell for it. Sometimes I really thought you were fucking with me. Seriously, 2009, you could be a real jerk. You never let me down, though; you just weren't what I expected.

I love you 2009, but goodbye. We weren't meant to last.

My heart to yours,
Rebecca

P.S. It seems like you have been working extremely hard and I imagine you are very tired.. Just relax now, 2009. You're over.

a modest proposal

2009-11-16T18:23:00.000-05:00

the "End of the World" project

Imagine there's a tundra in the middle of Brooklyn. A place where unspoken words crawl on hands and knees. Pop icons hang on walls with family portraits and political figures. Everyone you know is a mythical creature. Dreams dangle fears off the edge of a cliff. Everything meets nothing in a pig-pile of human experience.

The End of the World is talked about by politicians, economists, scientists, environmentalists, religious fanatics, conspiracy theorists, and Hollywood blockbusters as a point in time when the world or humanity ends or transforms drastically. Some visions place this time far from now, some as soon as 2012. Some believe it's our own doing, some the will of a deity, and some the inevitable course of nature. Some imagine it as the end, some as the beginning. Whatever the belief, we human beings cannot stay away from imagining our own collective mortality. Something about it seems to bring us together.

Let us imagine the "End of the World" as a physical space where the "real world" comes to play... Perhaps in this place where we imagine endings, we can also imagine beginnings...

ARTISTS of all kinds! with interests in environment, myth, apocalypse, politics, map-making, time, space, death, physics, installation art, shared vision... you are wanted for an altogether inspiring collaborative experience.

Contact: TheEndoftheWorld.bklyn@gmail.com

Visit www.rebeccaposner.blogspot.com
The "End of the World" Project
Brooklyn, NY

Brooklyn Re-dux

2009-11-12T13:20:00.000-05:00

1. Apologies for the unannounced hiatus. We're back!

2. We're back and we're in Brooklyn. The aforementioned time away has been filled with various farewells, re-locations, re-unitings, urban adventures, explorations inward and outward, money-making schemes, time-making schemes, space-making schemes et voila, enfin, un recommencement.

3. As the playing card series continues, it veers in uncharted directions. Most notably, I envision it now as a part of a collaborative effort, a multi-artist installation dealing with space, time, hopes, fears, science, politics, dreams, reality and fantasy as they relate to the "End of the World." The cards are, as it were, the development of a personal mythology, fed by the cultural stimulation around me. The collaboration would place this mythology in the context of some greater, shared experience. Stay tuned for a Call for Artists posting. And NYC-ers with ideas about available space or other area artists of interest, please let me know.

4. Also look out for posting of past work on this bloggity-blog. Projected date: this weekend.

5. Also, this man was brilliant:

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/11/08/weekinreview/08rohter.html

And much love. It's nice to be back.

.

Paris Reflections, a poem from the Territory

2009-11-12T13:08:00.000-05:00

for Anya

You hear him say your name in your native tongue, and tastes
How can you say how it tastes? You are two but not two.

His mistresses disguise as yellow pencil shavings.
They dress in ochre, like his skin, no one sees them.

You are drenched in motherhood. Three boys named for the Saints.
You are sinking in baby fat. Your translucent skin.

He is artist. He captures.
Siberian skies in your gentle gaze.

House of Cards revisited. . The Royal Eight.

2009-02-21T00:01:00.000-05:00

bonne fête, bonne fête

2008-12-26T14:26:00.000-05:00

Here's "Wasp wing wallpaper" as it's become. It's still becoming, but not far from finished, I think.

You can see hints of my little studio there in the back and foregrounds. I tried to capture the "intimacy" of the space in a photograph, but somehow the dimensions just don't work. The closest simulation would be to empty your closet and insulate it in plastic, then imagine it tucked inside an underground artists collective in Paris. Voila.

I added the dragonfly wings, first, to solve a composition problem. The wing was too heavy in the lower left hand corner. I realized the wing needed more lightness when my (dear) chef-friend had a look at it (after a few drinks) and gushed over the scrumptiousness of that lamb leg protruding out of that naked woman. (Merci a Daniel.)

Thinking about it now... I kinda wish I'd gone with the whole dead meat-naked woman thing. Instead I just gave her a greater wingspan.

The addition of more elements opened the process to playfulness... I've been experimenting with mediums, layering drawing over painting over collage over drawing. That lovely porn star's head just fit so beautifully, she had to be there, trapped...

when I step back and see what I am creating, I'm struck by the obvious femininity of the image... Or the creation of some new entity comprised of these traditionally feminine elements. I didn't set out to do this, but in retrospect, maybe that's what I'm doing (or just barely starting to do, more accurately). It's funny, sometimes creations come from ideas and sometimes ideas come from creations.

Here's the beginnings of some wallpaper, skulls, drawing from the pornographic images...

tiny spaces, french porn and other fantasies...

2008-12-19T07:13:00.000-05:00

Much of this week's creative time was spent constructing an insulated room out of a closet, a.k.a. my new studio. I moved from a 20 sq. foot space into a 4 sq. foot space, but now have time to actually use it. I'm back at "The Territory" working for Sergio Ostroverhy, Russian portrait artist, in exchange for the space... and happy to return to that strange little world.

I'm reading The Wind-up Bird Chronicle by none other than Haruki Murakami, constantly amazed, inspired by it. Some of the characters spend a considerable amount of time in the bottom of wells, thinking in the darkness. It's like that hidden human space I wrote about in the last post. Anyways, I'm thinkng of this little room (which Sergio lovingly named "The Newborn Sculpture Studio") as my Murakami well... maybe some "depth" will come of it...

Been working on some images and will post them by the end of the weekend. A continuation of earlier thoughts: the invisible, the imaginary. we live inside our own fantasies, nightmares. reality is creative.

Inspired by old photos, magazines, postcards I find at my favorite spot in Paris, the Marché aux Puces (flea market), especially some of the French pornography. Nostalgia & fantasy. Can't get enough of it. They'll work their way in somehow, maybe in the form of wallpaper...

aren't they weird, gorgeous, ethereal?

wasp wing wallpaper

2008-12-11T19:18:00.000-05:00

(Caviat: "work in progress," as they say... the floor's not straight. the floor's not working at all in fact. thinking about tiles. gold. i want a golden wasp wing. thinking iconic virgins, Klimt)

I drew the figure from a Greek sculpture at the Louvre... fascinated by the missing pieces...
and thinking about the invisible and the imaginary that inhabits those spaces... i want to make that more real in some ways than what is usually most obstensible. More integration of the figure into the background, perhaps...

I can't help but be obsessed by what's not there. Invisibility. How can a person be "filled with emptiness", right? Sort of a Freudian fascination, I suppose, with the worlds inside of us that we cannot completely access. A recent excursion into the Catacombs, the extensive underbelly of Paris, took me down to the subterranean. It was surreal, people warped, shit got weird. And amidst the interpersonal tensions, wet feet and fear of imminent death, there was a sort of twisted beauty to it all. It was beyond our normal experience. I want to pick at the stuff that lives below the surface.

Then there's this growing obsession with pretty wallpaper patterns. Hm, what is that? Just reaching out to the 1950's housewife in all of us... I don't know where it comes from, really. Although, I do find myself moved by the smoldering nostalgia of Paris, and if wallpaper is not the embodiment of smoldering nostalgia, I don't know what is... It's making me rediscover printmaking, and crave some innovative techniques to create the kitschiest floral patterns possible. Taking suggestions on that one.

Sorry for the fractured thoughts. Will write more tomorrow with an update on some logistical changes (new studio!).

bisous, bisous!

Le début

2008-12-05T10:43:00.001-05:00

Today marks the 3 month mark of my stay in Paris. My experience here continues to grow (stranger? richer? deeper?)and I've found myself in a new place (metaphysically-speaking), bearing a new commitment to making art in Paris. After all, when in Rome...

So here I am, a first-time blogger, beginning to record the immersion, conversion, perhaps the perversion of a jeune fille artiste in Paris... a place to exhibit what I create, to share my process. You can expect a post every Friday by 5pm (Parisian time). I will be held accountable.

So come, mes amis...
post your raw reactions, tangent rants, questions and creative responses. You can push my buttons, flatter my fancies, or tickle ma tête.

Merci. Bisous bisous...