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Author: dig
But then begins a journey in my head
Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
But then begins a journey in my head,
To work my mind, when body’s work’s expired:
For then my thoughts, from far where I abide,
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do see:
Save that my soul’s imaginary sight
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
Makes black night beauteous and her old face new.
Lo! Thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For thee and for myself no quiet find.
(Sonnet 27), William Shakespeare
the human form self-records its age while becoming a metaphor for external landscapes
Seung Ah Paik (b. 1979, Seoul, Korea) lives and works in Pittsburgh, USA. Gratin. Rubell Museum.
Body Cartography represents skin and the human body as tangible, living records–each blemish, wrinkle, or callous signifying the passage of time. These topographical markers connect moments in time to physical sites of transformation, transfiguring skin into what Paik terms “emotional terrain.” Paik is by no means new to the practice of morphing body and landscape, however. Her paintings serve as testament to the inextricable bond between nature and humanity, gradually eroding this barrier until her paintings become physical maps. With wrinkles as trajectories charting growth and defined lines suggestive of boundaries, the human form self-records its age while becoming a metaphor for external landscapes.
[…]
Paik seamlessly transforms that which is internal into external corporeal maps, meant to be followed and understood as one’s own. She does exactly that by painting entangled limbs and sloping breasts from obscure perspectives, presenting the illusion of looking down on one’s own body to establish a sense of familiarity. Paik reconstructs her body as a collection of objects observed from disjointed angles, complicating relationships between artist, viewer, and the created image.
glories infinite, haunt us
The passion poesy, glories infinite,
Haunt us till they become a cheering light
Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast,
That, whether there be shine, or gloom o’ercast,
They alway must be with us, or we die.
– Keats
foto-verde-1.jpg or and such are daffodils
[…]
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
‘Gainst the hot season; the mid forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven’s brink.
Endymion, Book I, [A thing of beauty is a joy for ever], John Keats
a container to hold our stuff
Moyra Davey, 2HB
October 3 — December 13, 2025
Simian
Moyra Davey was interviewed by Astrid Agnes Hald in October 2025 in connection to her solo exhibition ‘2HB’ at Simian in Copenhagen, Denmark.
Camera: Simon Weyhe Edited by: Astrid Agnes Hald Produced by: Astrid Agnes Hald Copyright: Louisiana Channel, Louisiana Museum of Modern Art, 2025 Louisiana Channel is supported by Den A.P. Møllerske Støttefond and Ny Carlsbergfondet.
There’s this idea that it’s a very old idea that I’ve always loved. It’s been articulated by many different people over the years. The idea that, the more particular you are, the more personal you can be with your storytelling, for instance, the greater number of people you will reach. […] it’s about … the sort of specificity of those details that um I guess you can resonate with an audience.
The Carrier Bag Theory of Fiction – Ursula K. Le Guin. 1988. Tenderbooks. “a container to hold” cited in this blog.
Minerai noir
Quand la sueur de l’Indien se trouva brusquement tarie par le soleil
Quand la frénésie de l’or draina au marché la dernière goutte de sang indien
De sorte qu’il ne resta plus un seul Indien aux alentours des mines d’or
On se tourna vers le fleuve musculaire de l’Afrique
Pour assurer la relève du désespoir
Alors commença la ruée vers l’inépuisable
Trésorerie de la chair noire
Alors commença la bousculade échevelée
Vers le rayonnant midi du corps noir
Et toute la terre retentit du vacarme des pioches
Dans l’épaisseur du minerai noir
Et tout juste si des chimistes ne pensèrent
Au moyen d’obtenir quelque alliage précieux
Avec le métal noir tout juste si des dames ne
Rêvèrent d’une batterie de cuisine
En nègre du Sénégal d’un service à thé
En massif négrillon des Antilles
Tout juste si quelque curé
Ne promit à sa paroisse
Une cloche coulée dans la sonorité du sang noir
Ou encore si un brave Père Noël ne songea
Pour sa visite annuelle
A des petits soldats de plomb noir
Ou si quelque vaillant capitaine
Ne tailla son épée dans l’ébène minéral
Toute la terre retentit de la secousse des foreuses
Dans les entrailles de ma race
Dans le gisement musculaire de l’homme noir
Voilà de nombreux siècles que dure l’extraction
Des merveilles de cette race
O couches métalliques de mon peuple
Minerai inépuisable de rosée humaine
Combien de pirates ont exploré de leurs armes
Les profondeurs obscures de ta chair
Combien de flibustiers se sont frayé leur chemin
A travers la riche végétation des clartés de ton corps
Jonchant tes années de tiges mortes
Et de flaques de larmes
Peuple dévalisé peuple de fond en comble retourné
Comme une terre en labours
Peuple défriché pour l’enrichissement
Des grandes foires du monde
Mûris ton grisou dans le secret de ta nuit corporelle
Nul n’osera plus couler des canons et des pièces d’or
Dans le noir métal de ta colère en crues.
René Depestre, Minerai noir,
Editions Présence africaine, 1956.
AG2025_1200880a
batch of grainy residue
the soaring dust of the mortal realm by Fei Ming ??
Translated By Yilin Wang, Translated from the Chinese
not to speak of timely rain falling wondrously upon ethereal mountains,
nor to dwell on footsteps echoing through hollow illusory valleys,
here’s yet another predictable batch of grainy residue,
still the mortal dust of the vast universe—
beyond the eaves, the lone call of a sparrow.
alas, pages of poetry, please become ashes taking flight.
the empty void is a speck of the heart that cherishes deeply.
the universe is a particle of unbroken dust drifting in the air.
