The Two Bright Doves- Laura Carter
*******
Jackie Lipton's New Paintings are on exhibit at Corinne Robbins Gallery
147 Atlantic Avenue (between Clinton and Henry Streets) April 16-May 17, 2009
Opening Reception is Thursday, April 16th 6-8pm
Gallery hours are Wed-Sat, 11-6 and Sun 12-5
718.855.1672
Directions: 2,3 or 4,5 to Borough Hall (or R to Court Street), walk down Joralemon Street
into Brooklyn Heights until you come to Clinton Street, then walk on Clinton to
Atlantic Avenue.
Turn right and you are there. Or walk down Court Street To Atlantic Avenue, then on Atlantic
past Clinton Street to 147 Atlantic Avenue.
Distribution Automatique
Friday, April 10
This Just In from Nico Vassilakis
My first Visual Poetry Show
Runs April 16th – May 9th, 2009
at
AC [Institute Direct] Chapel
547 W. 27th St, 5th Floor, #519-529
Gallery Hours: Wed, Fri. & Sat: 1-6pm, Thurs.: 1-8pm
The opening is on April 16th
Rhizome
Brochure Pdf included
(I’ll be around early evening April 23rd)
&
A Reading at the Poetry Project – April 24th, 10pm
Lawrence Giffin & Nico Vassilakis
thanks for your time,
n
My first Visual Poetry Show
Runs April 16th – May 9th, 2009
at
AC [Institute Direct] Chapel
547 W. 27th St, 5th Floor, #519-529
Gallery Hours: Wed, Fri. & Sat: 1-6pm, Thurs.: 1-8pm
The opening is on April 16th
Rhizome
Brochure Pdf included
(I’ll be around early evening April 23rd)
&
A Reading at the Poetry Project – April 24th, 10pm
Lawrence Giffin & Nico Vassilakis
thanks for your time,
n
Tuesday, April 7
Not In Service (words scribbled on a napkin)
It is no longer even interesting for me to wonder why for such long periods I have grown silent. But I do keep wondering what that silence is saying , because it is clear to me that it is saying something more precise and encompassing that I can now put into words. What is it telling me? Is it telling me that writing does so much more for the reader than it does for the writer? Is it saying that often, with writing I feel that I am painting myself into a corner? Is it murmuring to me that my words are a drop in the bucket, not even that-- a drop in the ocean, in an avalanche, a tidal wave? Is it telling me that the conclusions are mostly I-told-you-sos, been there done that, whatever, anything you can say I can say better? Is it saying that the written or blogged or printed word way too often does not enlighten, but, like a match in an underground cave, momentarily dazzles and then leaves the darkness darker? Is it saying that words are not like notes in a classical symphony, but more like sardonic echoes in an institutional lunchroom?
It is no longer even interesting for me to wonder why for such long periods I have grown silent. But I do keep wondering what that silence is saying , because it is clear to me that it is saying something more precise and encompassing that I can now put into words. What is it telling me? Is it telling me that writing does so much more for the reader than it does for the writer? Is it saying that often, with writing I feel that I am painting myself into a corner? Is it murmuring to me that my words are a drop in the bucket, not even that-- a drop in the ocean, in an avalanche, a tidal wave? Is it telling me that the conclusions are mostly I-told-you-sos, been there done that, whatever, anything you can say I can say better? Is it saying that the written or blogged or printed word way too often does not enlighten, but, like a match in an underground cave, momentarily dazzles and then leaves the darkness darker? Is it saying that words are not like notes in a classical symphony, but more like sardonic echoes in an institutional lunchroom?
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