Category: landscape

  • 060526

    Sunny. Clear.

    Steep incline.

    Survival

    Survival pending

                                   liberation

                                   revolution

    or begin again


    “Can it be politics without foregrounding dissonance?”

    “All sexual experiment in this film has transformative—animating, nauseating, life-threatening—consequences for the participants, whose drama is to want it all: but the task of le mariage pop is to invent an ordinariness for it. In another register we might call that politics.”

    via Berlant reading of Last Tango in Paris, directed by Bernardo Bertolucci, 1972.


    Soft Occupation at Sobremesa. A show organized by Juan Pablo Garza.


  • 060226

    Reflections of Buhaina, Art Blakey & the Jazz Messengers,  6:47.

    Free flight, Ernie Henry, 5:47.

    This kind of concern with managing the inevitable disturbance of intimacy, codependency, or the passions …”

    “a scene of a disturbance that smudges the differences among care, pleasure, control focus, and harm tests how we imagine being in the world together.” LB


    Fog.

  • perhaps not a word

    AG2026_1144564a
    AG2026_1144564a

    Open Call to artists of Haitian descent: Collaborate with the ALAN LOMAX audio archive of Haiti in the 1930s. Due : June 15, 2026. (Haitian Cultural Exchange)

    Specific Cultural Projects Deadline : July 10, 2026 (Florida Division of Arts & Culture Grants)


    A glimpse through an interstice caught,

    Of a crowd of workmen and drivers in a bar-room around the stove late of a winter night, and I unremark’d seated in a corner,

    Of a youth who loves me and whom I love, silently approaching and seating himself near, that he may hold me by the hand,

    A long while amid the noises of coming and going, of drinking and oath and smutty jest,

    There we two, content, happy in being together, speaking little, perhaps not a word.

    A Glimpse, Walt Whitman

  • Array’d in glory from the orbs above

    AG2026_1170516a
    AG2026_1170516a

    O Thou bright jewel in my aim I strive
    To comprehend thee. Thine own words declare
    Wisdom is higher than a fool can reach.
    I cease to wonder, and no more attempt
    Thine height t’explore, or fathom thy profound.
    But, O my soul, sink not into despair,
    Virtue is near thee, and with gentle hand
    Would now embrace thee, hovers o’er thine head.
    Fain would the heav’n-born soul with her converse,
    Then seek, then court her for her promis’d bliss.

    Auspicious queen, thine heav’nly pinions spread,
    And lead celestial Chastity along;
    Lo! now her sacred retinue descends,
    Array’d in glory from the orbs above.
    Attend me, Virtue, thro’ my youthful years!
    O leave me not to the false joys of time!
    But guide my steps to endless life and bliss.
    Greatness, or Goodness
    , say what I shall call thee,
    To give an higher appellation still,
    Teach me a better strain, a nobler lay,
    O thou, enthron’d with Cherubs in the realms of day!

    On Virtue, Phillis Wheatley

  • Every day steeling ourselves against it.

    Being called all manner of things
    from the Dictionary of Shame—
    not English, not words, not heard,
    but worn, borne, carried, never spent—
    we feel now a largeness coming on,
    something passing into us
    . We know
    not in what source it was begun, but
    rapt, we watch it rise through our fallen,
    our slain, our millions dragged, chained.
    Like daylight setting leaves alight—
    green to gold to blinding white.
    Like a spirit caught. Flame-in-flesh.
    I watched a woman try to shake it, once,
    from her shoulders and hips. A wild
    annihilating fright. Other women
    formed a wall around her, holding back
    what clamored to rise. God. Devil.
    Ancestor.
    What Black bodies carry
    through your schools, your cities.
    Do you see how mighty you’ve made us,
    all these generations running?
    Every day steeling ourselves against it.
    Every day coaxing it back into coils.
    And all the while feeding it.
    And all the while loving it.

    We Feel Now A Largeness Coming On, Tracy K. Smith


    AG2026_1222301a
    AG2026_1222301a or Here, hylomorphic, composed from a heap of parts
  • Prim and mottled forms arranged to this end, an exhibition

    Exhibition Statement

    Modern society suffers from a temporal crisis, not a shortage of time, but a slip in our hold of its fragrance, texture, and meaning. Today’s accelerated, atomized time, structured by productivity, efficiency, and constant stimulation has deemphasized temporal duration and depth. Yet the essence of the human condition lies in the slowness of the mundane, the everyday, the gradual changes, and in being almost there. Our lives consist of experiencing a series of “on the ways,” and impending anticipated arrivals. Prim and mottled forms arranged to this end, a solo exhibition of new works on paper by Adler Guerrier, contemplates textures, spatial structures, and temporalities within the notion of “pending.” The word derives from the French preposition pendant (“during”), tracing back to the Latin pendere, meaning “to hang” or “to suspend.”
     

    Pending, for Guerrier, is a mode of being with its own interiority, its own spatial and temporal elasticity, articulated as a survival strategy of the not-yet nor fully liberated, deployed for its generative and freeing potentiality. Through drawing, photography, collage, and mixed media, Guerrier explores how this temporality, as it emerged within compositions and arrangements, might offer a kind of spatial strata, one where everyday survival is posited as life long goal and the easy reach for forms of goodness.
     

    Art discourse readily addresses beauty, sublimity, truth, and the uncanny. Goodness, by contrast, has seemed too earnest, too unguarded, too simple to sustain critical attention. In this body of work, Guerrier challenges this, proposing that goodness is the very end for pending, weathering, and moving through the affirming conditions under which survival becomes livable. He distinguishes two registers. The first is expansive: goodness as totality, utopian, or paradise. The second is quotidian: as in the well-wishing of a good morning, or the mood enhancing of a shared joke, the settled calm contentment of simply being. The latter is threaded into the complexities of life, prompting us to wonder how we each inhabit and move through this temporal space.
     

    In Untitled (This here moment propels and guides) and Untitled (California poppies, Los Angeles) i, Guerrier explores the spatial and temporal dimensions of being and pending through the subject of wildflowers. Wildflowers operate in a spatial asideness from structured and urban modernity, following their own botanical life cycles and abundant colorful forms of goodness, thriving amongst piles of trash, exhaust fumes, harsh concrete, and reduced biodiversity. Guerrier’s formal choreography of drawing, collage, and painting, as seen in Untitled (Field Guide–exposure to enchanted forms) xvii and Untitled (A will to adorn; détourné) i, intentionally calls attention to the forms’ substructures, varied mark-making, and materiality. The exposed underlayers of paper, edge lines, and splashes of paint reveal the works’ coming into being, creating and sustaining the conditions for durational observation. This emphasis on materiality underscores the works’ medium-ness. In doing so, it counters the contemporary prioritization of immediacy (without anything in between), and ultimately reasserts art’s place and power as both medium and mediation. 
     

    Prim and mottled forms arranged to this end endeavors to restore the scent and depth of time. The exhibition reminds us that human beings are often shaped less by the act of arriving than by the particular way they inhabit the interval before arrival, forged in how they travel between the ground that holds and the horizon that keeps, always, its patient distance. 

    re.riddle

    AG2026_1222241a
  • The tree outside my window is committing plagiarism for the twentieth year in a row

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    AG2023_1120326a

    It is spring again, spring so astonishingly familiar: so why is poetry choking on itself? The tree outside my window is committing plagiarism for the twentieth year in a row, adding green leaves to green leaves. The flowers of the cherry tree are no different from the first cherry tree; the same smell as yesterday permeates the air. And—though old people say this is tedious—my sister is kissing someone under the same tree where I used to kiss, ?endlessly plagiarizing the first kiss. I could still tell you about the grasses, all the grasses that sprouted from seeds faithfully and persistently, the same, the exact same grass as months ago. The world is not afraid to ?plagiarize when making new life, and always equally astonishing and monotonous in its stubbornness is death. Why then condemn poems of love, why blame them for their lack of shame and their primitive, chaotic groans of pleasure, faithfully replicated for centuries, indifferent to who reads them?

    It is spring again, Halina Po?wiatowska, Translated from the Polish by Karolina Zapal & Ryan Mihaly


    my heart is an autocrat
    ach! how it runs rampant
    obscuring the world

    it silences the fountains
    and flies up to the eighth floor
    quicker than a pigeon

    then from the parapet
    it gazes for hours
    delighting in tiny people
    basking in its greatness

    my heart is an autocrat, Halina Po?wiatowska, Translated from the Polish by Karolina Zapal & Ryan Mihaly

  • AG2026_1222179b or beauty of fire from the beauty of embers

    AG2026_1222179b

    Be with me, Beauty, for the fire is dying; 
    My dog and I are old, too old for roving. 
    Man, whose young passion sets the spindrift flying, 
    Is soon too lame to march, too cold for loving. 
    I take the book and gather to the fire, 
    Turning old yellow leaves; minute by minute 
    The clock ticks to my heart. A withered wire, 
    Moves a thin ghost of music in the spinet. 
    I cannot sail your seas, I cannot wander 
    Your cornland, nor your hill-land, nor your valleys 
    Ever again, nor share the battle yonder 
    Where the young knight the broken squadron rallies. 
    Only stay quiet while my mind remembers 
    The beauty of fire from the beauty of embers. 
    Beauty, have pity! for the strong have power, 
    The rich their wealth, the beautiful their grace, 
    Summer of man its sunlight and its flower, 
    Spring-time of man all April in a face. 
    Only, as in the jostling in the Strand, 
    Where the mob thrusts or loiters or is loud, 
    The beggar with the saucer in his hand 
    Asks only a penny from the passing crowd, 
    So, from this glittering world with all its fashion, 
    Its fire, and play of men, its stir, its march, 
    Let me have wisdom, Beauty, wisdom and passion, 
    Bread to the soul, rain where the summers parch
    . 
    Give me but these, and, though the darkness close, 
    Even the night will blossom as the rose. 

    On Growing Old, John Edward Masefield