Distribution Automatique

Saturday, April 11

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

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.

Friday, April 10

This Just In from Nico Vassilakis

My first Visual Poetry Show

Runs April 16th – May 9th, 2009


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


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,

Mira Schor's artist's talk Friday April 10 at Momenta Art

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?