These paintings are of a cat I used to play with as a child. His name was Pinker, because he was pinker than his companion, Cripa, who had a spot on her nose.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Cats
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Friday, September 08, 2006
Friday, June 16, 2006
New Quote from artquotes.net
It is by universal misunderstanding that all agree. For if, by
ill luck, people understood each other, they would never agree.
::: Charles Baudelaire :::
ill luck, people understood each other, they would never agree.
::: Charles Baudelaire :::
Monday, April 10, 2006
Here's another one...
One day it will have to be officially admitted that what we have
christened reality is an even greater illusion than the world of
dreams.
::: Salvador Dali :::
from artquotes.net
christened reality is an even greater illusion than the world of
dreams.
::: Salvador Dali :::
from artquotes.net
Friday, April 07, 2006
Recommended site...
Link
I recently subscribed to receive "art quotes" :) from the website below. Three times a week they send me an inspirational quote, so I decided to share one I liked here. If you would like to subscribe, it is easy and simple. All you need to do is enter your e-mail address, and that's it! And you'll start receiving these wonderful quotes!
ArtQuotes.net Art Directory..
http://www.artquotes.net/directory/
It's very hard as an artist to admit you have a desire to be
famous. To be an artist is not about fame; it's about art,
which is this intangible thing that has got to have lots of integrity,
whereas being famous doesn't really take any integrity. But I
think you have to admit that you want to be famous, otherwise
you can't be an artist. Art and fame together are like a
desire to live forever.
::: Damien Hirst :::
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Two new (well...kinda new) stories.
Reminiscences By Mona
Downtown Saint Mathieu street, corner Maisonneuve, was filthy. Old gum and rubbish, and who-knows-what-else, covered the sidewalk, where pigeons pecked at the remains of yesterday’s pizza crusts from Anatolia. The place used to be called “49 cents PIZZA”, and had many customers, including us. We used to go there often, relishing the flavours, the hot, saucy slices, and the strings of melted cheese. Then the nearby competition went out of business, and PIZZA 49 raised its prices. And so for a while the name was dishonest. Eventually that changed, but Anatolia, the new restaurant, never got as many customers as “49 cents PIZZA” had been used to.
Across from the pizzeria, the dingy area also housed a great fire station. Friendly fire fighters we waved to as kids often sat around smoking cigarettes on a bright red bench. Like the trucks, the bench gave some colour to the grey place, which, in the summertime, often reeked of pigeon droppings.
On the other side of Maisonneuve was a small Arab shop, called “Al-Mizan”, (the balance), that sold fresh vegetables, grain, meat, and sweets. Sometimes I’d go there to pick up some chicken legs or ground beef, or maybe some rice flour, that my mother had ordered. When entering through the door I’d always say “Assalam-Alaikum” to the man by the cash register, who had striking, clear blue eyes and fair hair. While waiting in line I’d try to pick up the news from Al-Jazeera, which was always on the TV in front of the cash. I never really could, as the little Arabic I had studied was the classical, and not the spoken style. Once a huge elderly woman with many rings and an exotic headdress was talking animatedly in Arabic to the blue-eyed cashier. She made grandiose gestures and he nodded and dropped in a syllable every once in a while. I had looked curiously from one to the other. After she had finished and left, he asked me if I had understood anything. I shook my head. He smiled and, with a playful tone, said that he hadn’t either.
Years before, Al-Mizan had been located in another part of the downtown area, and the location it now occupied had been a flower-shop. This was where the other kids and I were picked up by the school bus every day. In the spring, it was lovely and the air was perfume, and there was a little tree with long, thin, pale-green leaves in an earth-filled cement construction attached to the high-rise on the corner. I had climbed it once, and been delighted to find four small white “sinjid” , which I had immediately gobbled up. At home, I had told my mother about the sinjid tree, but she hadn’t believed me. However, on each subsequent occasion I checked it, the tree was fruitless.
On the remaining corner, upper side of the street and to the left from the direction of Saint Catherine, was the Guy-Concordia metro station. As with all metro stations, a strong gust of wind would hit you as you fought your way through the doors. Here, the drunk and homeless would invariably be seen lying ragged on the bench or filthy floor. Here was the hardest of beds, the most dismal and draughty of homes. Cold and colourless it was, two blocks upwards of the colours of Saint-Catherine street, where bustling shoppers quickly stepped by the beggars, the ragged men who were feared, ignored, forgotten. Some, with their girls and dogs beside them, were quite young, others less so. A boy of maybe twenty had a sign that asked a penny for a smile. And an ever-present old man, white-bearded, tawny-skinned, and tattooed, always sat cross-legged by the Faubourg, corner Saint-Mathieu and Saint-Catherine, on the very same block as the nuns’ house. This one was neat, friendly, and appreciative. In fact, most of them were so desperately hungry that their eyes glittered when you gave them the ham-sandwiches you wouldn’t eat yourself. The younger ones grabbed them and ate voraciously; this old man smiled and took them in silence, with a sincere “thank-you”. He had such a wise, almost prophet-like aspect; it made you wonder how he got there. They were all so alive, so puppy-eyed—so human. Passing them felt like a stab to the gut, but there was no avoiding it. Nearly every day, I experienced fresh cuts. There was nothing I could do.
sinjid:(A small fruit found in Iran, usually with a red skin, and, a sweet, powdery, white flesh, with a striped seed similar in shape to that of a date.)
Song for Persepolis
I have never seen my homeland. We left it when I was two years old, and to me, that’s like never having been there. Some dream of a better life here in North America. It is not so. One longs for the soil of the motherland, weeps for loved ones left behind. My mother sings the many anthems of the revolution, which, over time, I have learned to a degree. Sometimes she’ll spring into song, and I will join her. At intervals I cry, that I can’t see my grandfather, my grandmothers, my aunts, my uncles, my cousins… I doubt I’ll ever see the golden shrines of Masshad and Qom; the intricate tile patterns of the mosques; the luxury of the Shah’s palaces, now museums; the shining beauty of all that is Isfahan, which they call “half the world”; or the magnificent modern structure of Azadi Square, that stands tall proud in a field of green. I picture in my head the rice fields along the Caspian Sea, and the rural people who tend them. I picture the fishermen of the Gulf of Oman, their nets bursting with the fruit of the sea. I picture the bedouins of the deserts, Dasht-e-Kavir and Dasht-e-Loot, with their colored caravans, florid faces, and vivid costumes. I picture Tehran and its polluted air, traffic-congested and unbreathable—my uncle Mehdi riding a motorcycle, white pants on in the morning, black by dusk. I ask my mother to repeat the stories of her childhood, which she does again and again, being my only source of contact with a faraway realm. Occasional phone calls and letters from halfway across the globe leave me emotional and hoping, that one day I will return to the home of the Aryans, the ancestral boon of the race whose women are dark-haired and thick-browed, the land of the smiling sun, the cat-shaped country.
Downtown Saint Mathieu street, corner Maisonneuve, was filthy. Old gum and rubbish, and who-knows-what-else, covered the sidewalk, where pigeons pecked at the remains of yesterday’s pizza crusts from Anatolia. The place used to be called “49 cents PIZZA”, and had many customers, including us. We used to go there often, relishing the flavours, the hot, saucy slices, and the strings of melted cheese. Then the nearby competition went out of business, and PIZZA 49 raised its prices. And so for a while the name was dishonest. Eventually that changed, but Anatolia, the new restaurant, never got as many customers as “49 cents PIZZA” had been used to.
Across from the pizzeria, the dingy area also housed a great fire station. Friendly fire fighters we waved to as kids often sat around smoking cigarettes on a bright red bench. Like the trucks, the bench gave some colour to the grey place, which, in the summertime, often reeked of pigeon droppings.
On the other side of Maisonneuve was a small Arab shop, called “Al-Mizan”, (the balance), that sold fresh vegetables, grain, meat, and sweets. Sometimes I’d go there to pick up some chicken legs or ground beef, or maybe some rice flour, that my mother had ordered. When entering through the door I’d always say “Assalam-Alaikum” to the man by the cash register, who had striking, clear blue eyes and fair hair. While waiting in line I’d try to pick up the news from Al-Jazeera, which was always on the TV in front of the cash. I never really could, as the little Arabic I had studied was the classical, and not the spoken style. Once a huge elderly woman with many rings and an exotic headdress was talking animatedly in Arabic to the blue-eyed cashier. She made grandiose gestures and he nodded and dropped in a syllable every once in a while. I had looked curiously from one to the other. After she had finished and left, he asked me if I had understood anything. I shook my head. He smiled and, with a playful tone, said that he hadn’t either.
Years before, Al-Mizan had been located in another part of the downtown area, and the location it now occupied had been a flower-shop. This was where the other kids and I were picked up by the school bus every day. In the spring, it was lovely and the air was perfume, and there was a little tree with long, thin, pale-green leaves in an earth-filled cement construction attached to the high-rise on the corner. I had climbed it once, and been delighted to find four small white “sinjid” , which I had immediately gobbled up. At home, I had told my mother about the sinjid tree, but she hadn’t believed me. However, on each subsequent occasion I checked it, the tree was fruitless.
On the remaining corner, upper side of the street and to the left from the direction of Saint Catherine, was the Guy-Concordia metro station. As with all metro stations, a strong gust of wind would hit you as you fought your way through the doors. Here, the drunk and homeless would invariably be seen lying ragged on the bench or filthy floor. Here was the hardest of beds, the most dismal and draughty of homes. Cold and colourless it was, two blocks upwards of the colours of Saint-Catherine street, where bustling shoppers quickly stepped by the beggars, the ragged men who were feared, ignored, forgotten. Some, with their girls and dogs beside them, were quite young, others less so. A boy of maybe twenty had a sign that asked a penny for a smile. And an ever-present old man, white-bearded, tawny-skinned, and tattooed, always sat cross-legged by the Faubourg, corner Saint-Mathieu and Saint-Catherine, on the very same block as the nuns’ house. This one was neat, friendly, and appreciative. In fact, most of them were so desperately hungry that their eyes glittered when you gave them the ham-sandwiches you wouldn’t eat yourself. The younger ones grabbed them and ate voraciously; this old man smiled and took them in silence, with a sincere “thank-you”. He had such a wise, almost prophet-like aspect; it made you wonder how he got there. They were all so alive, so puppy-eyed—so human. Passing them felt like a stab to the gut, but there was no avoiding it. Nearly every day, I experienced fresh cuts. There was nothing I could do.
sinjid:(A small fruit found in Iran, usually with a red skin, and, a sweet, powdery, white flesh, with a striped seed similar in shape to that of a date.)
Song for Persepolis
I have never seen my homeland. We left it when I was two years old, and to me, that’s like never having been there. Some dream of a better life here in North America. It is not so. One longs for the soil of the motherland, weeps for loved ones left behind. My mother sings the many anthems of the revolution, which, over time, I have learned to a degree. Sometimes she’ll spring into song, and I will join her. At intervals I cry, that I can’t see my grandfather, my grandmothers, my aunts, my uncles, my cousins… I doubt I’ll ever see the golden shrines of Masshad and Qom; the intricate tile patterns of the mosques; the luxury of the Shah’s palaces, now museums; the shining beauty of all that is Isfahan, which they call “half the world”; or the magnificent modern structure of Azadi Square, that stands tall proud in a field of green. I picture in my head the rice fields along the Caspian Sea, and the rural people who tend them. I picture the fishermen of the Gulf of Oman, their nets bursting with the fruit of the sea. I picture the bedouins of the deserts, Dasht-e-Kavir and Dasht-e-Loot, with their colored caravans, florid faces, and vivid costumes. I picture Tehran and its polluted air, traffic-congested and unbreathable—my uncle Mehdi riding a motorcycle, white pants on in the morning, black by dusk. I ask my mother to repeat the stories of her childhood, which she does again and again, being my only source of contact with a faraway realm. Occasional phone calls and letters from halfway across the globe leave me emotional and hoping, that one day I will return to the home of the Aryans, the ancestral boon of the race whose women are dark-haired and thick-browed, the land of the smiling sun, the cat-shaped country.
Fun Links
Dear Flower,
as you asked, here are som interesting sites (I tried making links, but unfortunately, they don't seem to work, so I guess you'll just have to copy/paste into the address bar. **If anyone can help me with this problem it would be very much appreciated**.)
This one is really fun and interesting:
http://www.neave.com
and here is a cool site on optical illusions:
http://www.michaelbach.de/ot/index.html
as you asked, here are som interesting sites (I tried making links, but unfortunately, they don't seem to work, so I guess you'll just have to copy/paste into the address bar. **If anyone can help me with this problem it would be very much appreciated**.)
This one is really fun and interesting:
http://www.neave.com
and here is a cool site on optical illusions:
http://www.michaelbach.de/ot/index.html
Thursday, January 12, 2006
Putty of the Western World
There is a certain anger in a region of the East,
Where clerics rule the day and guard their honor to the least,
Where insults to their class are censored (not allowed to see the light),
The system’s quite effective, showing off their weighty might.
The younger generation, which emulates the West,
Won’t accept that theocratic rule is probably the best.
Having missed the revolution, being born a few years late,
There are aspects of true freedom they do not appreciate.
That despotic rule of tyrants is expelled they cannot see.
They know they want to imitate what’s on satellite TV.
Believing in a better world in the Western Hemisphere,
And seeking their identities in the “culture” they see there,
They’ve lost the sense of liberty their parents fought to gain.
And search for satisfaction in a worldview that’s insane.
Their clothes are slowly falling off; their dignities are lost.
They seek a brand new in-group, and don’t calculate the cost.
Forgetting their own culture, their ancestral heritage,
They vainly make a struggle, to conform to the new age.
The other side of earth laughs at their foolish, vain attempts.
The Western world looks on in cunning, cruel contempt.
The old man Uncle Sam has got them in his grip.
His master plan is working, they’re surely soon to slip.
In foolish adoration of consumer culture fads,
Despising parent’s intrusiveness and a government gone bad,
Having lost their sense of purpose, and following the stream,
With an imbecilic blindness, in a net of artful schemes,
With an illusory goal in mind, worshipping false idols,
With the intention of acceptance, they’ve lost all their morals.
Sad old bearded faces look on helplessly and dreading.
“What happened to the work we did, to prevent all this from spreading?”
“Who’s at fault?” we wonder, shepherd, sheep or fox?
Who has caused the helpless children to be utterly so lost?
Has the shepherd been neglectful of his multitude of flocks?
Has he made the field too vast and let them roam too far to dock?
No, his eye’s been watchful, and he’s banned the poisoned herb…
Then what has caused this trouble, this rebellion so unheard…
Of course, we know he’s been a tiny tad too strict.
A field to graze, he’s given, but too small and in such constrict!
“And what can be beyond this fence?” they wonder with a sigh,
The grass invariably greener on that far, restricted side.
And as Adam’s apple tempts, the devil’s grass does too.
And the sneaky serpent slyly slips in, with a charm or two.
Lo and behold! The evil has set in.
And as did the children of Israel, they exalt the calf of sin!
And though the warnings came, invariable and strong,
They carried off on their parade, and said: “Come join this throng!”
And in their net of fantasies, the glitter in their eyes,
They made a feast of forbidden fruit, believing in true lies.
The promise of the devil is invariably broke,
And we know the dark bond in which their names were feverishly wrote!
For the gains they’ll gain are nothing, they have paid with their own souls!
And though they are responsible, another can’t repose.
For who was first to deprive them of their childish, wanton hopes?
And who did strive to guide them by binding them with ropes?
And though they blocked their ears to reason, who listened to their needs?
Who let the devil infiltrate, with his selfishness and greed?
Whose vain attempts at censorship caused anger to unfold?
Who tried to block out something that he could not hope to hold?
Who did not see, he should let it be, and let them use their minds?
Who neglected to take an extra step, to show his aim was kind?
Who forgot the reverse psychology of taboo labels on the mind?
Who tried to keep a flock fenced in, giving notions of being behind?
The answer is THE GOVERNMENT, who despite its many tries,
Did not attempt to understand, and did not realize,
The effect of propaganda upon the childish soul,
And in its leaky, little boat, forgot to patch a hole.
Nov. 2005
Where clerics rule the day and guard their honor to the least,
Where insults to their class are censored (not allowed to see the light),
The system’s quite effective, showing off their weighty might.
The younger generation, which emulates the West,
Won’t accept that theocratic rule is probably the best.
Having missed the revolution, being born a few years late,
There are aspects of true freedom they do not appreciate.
That despotic rule of tyrants is expelled they cannot see.
They know they want to imitate what’s on satellite TV.
Believing in a better world in the Western Hemisphere,
And seeking their identities in the “culture” they see there,
They’ve lost the sense of liberty their parents fought to gain.
And search for satisfaction in a worldview that’s insane.
Their clothes are slowly falling off; their dignities are lost.
They seek a brand new in-group, and don’t calculate the cost.
Forgetting their own culture, their ancestral heritage,
They vainly make a struggle, to conform to the new age.
The other side of earth laughs at their foolish, vain attempts.
The Western world looks on in cunning, cruel contempt.
The old man Uncle Sam has got them in his grip.
His master plan is working, they’re surely soon to slip.
In foolish adoration of consumer culture fads,
Despising parent’s intrusiveness and a government gone bad,
Having lost their sense of purpose, and following the stream,
With an imbecilic blindness, in a net of artful schemes,
With an illusory goal in mind, worshipping false idols,
With the intention of acceptance, they’ve lost all their morals.
Sad old bearded faces look on helplessly and dreading.
“What happened to the work we did, to prevent all this from spreading?”
“Who’s at fault?” we wonder, shepherd, sheep or fox?
Who has caused the helpless children to be utterly so lost?
Has the shepherd been neglectful of his multitude of flocks?
Has he made the field too vast and let them roam too far to dock?
No, his eye’s been watchful, and he’s banned the poisoned herb…
Then what has caused this trouble, this rebellion so unheard…
Of course, we know he’s been a tiny tad too strict.
A field to graze, he’s given, but too small and in such constrict!
“And what can be beyond this fence?” they wonder with a sigh,
The grass invariably greener on that far, restricted side.
And as Adam’s apple tempts, the devil’s grass does too.
And the sneaky serpent slyly slips in, with a charm or two.
Lo and behold! The evil has set in.
And as did the children of Israel, they exalt the calf of sin!
And though the warnings came, invariable and strong,
They carried off on their parade, and said: “Come join this throng!”
And in their net of fantasies, the glitter in their eyes,
They made a feast of forbidden fruit, believing in true lies.
The promise of the devil is invariably broke,
And we know the dark bond in which their names were feverishly wrote!
For the gains they’ll gain are nothing, they have paid with their own souls!
And though they are responsible, another can’t repose.
For who was first to deprive them of their childish, wanton hopes?
And who did strive to guide them by binding them with ropes?
And though they blocked their ears to reason, who listened to their needs?
Who let the devil infiltrate, with his selfishness and greed?
Whose vain attempts at censorship caused anger to unfold?
Who tried to block out something that he could not hope to hold?
Who did not see, he should let it be, and let them use their minds?
Who neglected to take an extra step, to show his aim was kind?
Who forgot the reverse psychology of taboo labels on the mind?
Who tried to keep a flock fenced in, giving notions of being behind?
The answer is THE GOVERNMENT, who despite its many tries,
Did not attempt to understand, and did not realize,
The effect of propaganda upon the childish soul,
And in its leaky, little boat, forgot to patch a hole.
Nov. 2005
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