Notes

Once Upon A Time In Kazimierz: Stories from the Old World

Theatrical and poetic in style, this series of constructed photographs tells the tale of a long-lost Jewish neighborhood in Krakow. A magical and enchanting photoessay, which reflects the fleeting, fluid nature of memory—and dreams.

Photographs and text by Richard Tuschman

 
Please visit LensCulture for more of this beautiful series from Richard Tuschman. While you’re there, be sure to check out Richard Tuschman’s series Hopper Meditations

Giving Artists With Disabilities a Space to Thrive

Creative Growth Art Center is dedicated to giving artists with disabilities the space to let their talents shine. Today, their work has been shown all over the world, from La Biennale di Venezia to MoMA The Museum of Modern Art.

If you would like to find out more, please visit the FB page – Creative Growth Art Center, and/or their website – http://www.creativegrowth.org/category/news/

It’s a pattern

Is it odd that I love making patterns? If I had to pick one thing that I enjoy the most about making kites (besides watching someone fly one of my designs with a big grin on their face), it would be making patterns. Maybe it’s because once I get a design to the point where I can do final refinements on the pattern, the rest of the process can be put on autopilot. Cutting, scraping and sanding the edges of a perfect progressive curve, making sure to leave enough of an entrance flat to make it easy to hem the edge smoothly and repeatably? Yeah, probably a little odd, but I’m OK with that. 

American Craft

Renewed my membership in the American Craft Council this afternoon. I join primarily for their wonderful magazine, but also to support their championing of fine craft. I’d been debating whether the $40 a year was a good spend right now, but I sure do enjoy the magazine. When I read in the most recent issue about the flak they got for a few articles that featured art of a more political slant this past fall, including letters from members that canceled, I couldn’t not renew.

I honestly don’t recall the articles, but the artists and craftsmen must have done their job to get this kind of reaction. As a quote attributed to Cesar A. Cruz says, “Art should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable.”

Kait Rokowski – “A Good Day”

Yesterday, I spent 60 dollars on groceries,
took the bus home,
carried both bags with two good arms back to my studio apartment
and cooked myself dinner.
You and I may have different definitions of a good day.
This week, I paid my rent and my credit card bill,
worked 60 hours between my two jobs,
only saw the sun on my cigarette breaks
and slept like a rock.
Flossed in the morning,
locked my door,
and remembered to buy eggs.
My mother is proud of me.
It is not the kind of pride she brags about at the golf course.
She doesn’t combat topics like, ”My daughter got into Yale”
with, ”Oh yeah, my daughter remembered to buy eggs”
But she is proud.
See, she remembers what came before this.
The weeks where I forgot how to use my muscles,
how I would stay as silent as a thick fog for weeks.
She thought each phone call from an unknown number was the notice of my suicide.
These were the bad days.
My life was a gift that I wanted to return.
My head was a house of leaking faucets and burnt-out lightbulbs.
Depression, is a good lover.
So attentive; has this innate way of making everything about you.
And it is easy to forget that your bedroom is not the world,
That the dark shadows your pain casts is not mood-lighting.
It is easier to stay in this abusive relationship than fix the problems it has created.
Today, I slept in until 10,
cleaned every dish I own,
fought with the bank,
took care of paperwork.
You and I might have different definitions of adulthood.
I don’t work for salary, I didn’t graduate from college,
but I don’t speak for others anymore,
and I don’t regret anything I can’t genuinely apologize for.
And my mother is proud of me.
I burned down a house of depression,
I painted over murals of greyscale,
and it was hard to rewrite my life into one I wanted to live
But today, I want to live.
I didn’t salivate over sharp knives,
or envy the boy who tossed himself off the Brooklyn bridge.
I just cleaned my bathroom,
did the laundry,
called my brother.
Told him, “it was a good day.