Only Connect

Flickr's Viki Olner's "kodak," 2011

2012-01-24T10:13:00.001-06:00

kodak, originally uploaded by Viki Olner.

"An abrupt demise"

Where once was Kodak,
Now there's but a crack.
What a shocking demise!
Like all lasting, no surprise.

-- JW, for Viki Olner, January 24, 2012.

The Great Hope - Exile & Expectation, 2012

2012-01-21T00:05:00.001-06:00

The Great Hope - Exile & Expectation, 2012, originally uploaded by johnwalford.

Long exiled from that lush, green garden,
Wandered far, bearing sorrow all the way,
We see the dry bones strewn in dry dust,
And wonder in what distant hope to trust.
--- JW, January 21st, 2012.

The Great Love - Creation, 2012

2012-01-21T00:04:00.003-06:00

The Great Love - Creation, 2012, originally uploaded by johnwalford.

The Great Fall - Loss, Pain & Grief, 2012

2012-01-21T00:04:00.001-06:00

The Great Fall - Loss, Pain & Grief, 2012, originally uploaded by johnwalford.

When our forebears to disobey did choose,
God knew full well the great gifts they would lose.
The grim reaper would soon sharpen his scythe,
And no living being would last alive.
-- JW, January 19, 2012.

John Walford's Atlantis Rises from the Sea, 2012

2012-01-14T22:28:00.004-06:00

Atlantis Rises from the Sea, 2012, originally uploaded by johnwalford.

"Atlantis Rises from the Sea"

I think the world just shrank.

I looked out to sea, and what did I see,
But high-rise buildings beyond the sea.
They must have been built incredibly high
To be seen, as here, between sea and sky.

Flickr's sovcsil / Csilla Sövenyhazy's Red Vine (10mpSövényházyCsillaIMG_9768.0.10.10.23Őszi levelek Budapesten) 2011

2011-12-30T11:05:00.002-06:00

10mpSövényházyCsillaIMG_9768.0.10.10.23Őszi levelek Budapesten, originally uploaded by sovcsil.

"The Red Vine"

Red against gray,
Drives me to say,
Gives joy to my day,
Makes me want to pray,
Thank God for vines,
Especially The Vine.

--JW, Dec 30, 2011, for sovcsil/Csilla Sövenyhazy, wishing you a peaceful and purposeful New Year!

Advent - A Christmas Meditation

2011-12-23T14:05:00.002-06:00

Advent

Advent comes around, predictably, each year,
Like sunrise, its certitude never, never fear!
In heralding Christmas, it brings children cheer,
For their parents, the elderly, memories dear.

But what is remembered, and why this year
As last year, year following year, why care?
For as long as remembered, will always be,
Advent, leading up to a Christmas tree.

For little ones, that tree, ‘tis all they see,
Twinkling lights, fond baubles, most of all,
Colored packages, all sizes and shapes,
Gathered around the Christmas tree drapes.

The sparkling spectacle, for parents a chore,
Made mostly for their little ones to adore.
Forget we one, unique, who came into the world,
Whose story, at Christmas does start to unfold?

Christmas, unchanging, will always return,
As long as human hearts for God do yearn.
Yet if we forget, the Great Adventure remains,
For God has his steady hands holding the reins.

As we prepare this Advent, ponder anew,
Who was this child, born to me, and to you?
Advent, its coming should give us all pause:
Where there’s an effect, there is always a cause.

--JW, a Christmas meditation, Dec. 23, 2011.

Flickr's Ingrid Hedbavny's Advent calendar 11. 12. 2011 - 5 Apples ofParadise

2011-12-21T19:58:00.002-06:00

Advent calendar 11. 12. 2011 - 5 Apples of Paradise, originally uploaded by hedbavny.

"Adventkalender, Abfall und Apfel"

I was first made to anticipate a day,
A day that comes round once a year,
A day that reminds us, not to fear,
For there are glad tidings that await.

But some do not care, cannot bear
The message, the medium, I fear,
And tossed me aside, as 'abfall.'
Found, wed with 'paradiesapfel.'

How belong we together? What
Trick of mind and eye, to bind
'Apfall' and 'apfel,' just where
An angel announces Advent.

--JW, for Ingrid Hedbavny, with appreciation
for your attentive viewing of my Flickr stream,
21st December, 2011.

Flickr's I'm Jac あき 's "Girl in Café"

2011-12-14T10:38:00.003-06:00

Untitled, originally uploaded by i'm Jac.

Alone in the Café

I sit here alone, with my coffee in hand,
There’s an empty seat – waiting for you.
I could tell you my thoughts, glancing demur.
You gaze in my face, what do you see?
I am young, I reflect, I am glad I am free.
Yet I sit here alone, my coffee in hand.

I sit by the window, as others before,
Blinds shading the light, chair holding
My coat and my bag – gladly removed.
Others share together, while I am alone,
Rather be here, than sitting at home.
A painter in Delft, he saw this before.
- John Walford, Dec. 14, 2011.

Flickr's Bart van Damme's "I Forget," 2011 - disintegrating Hostas

2011-12-04T13:48:00.001-06:00

I Forget, originally uploaded by Bart van Damme.

"We Once Were Hostas"

Once we did so healthy flourish,
Sap surging up our stems,
Leaves spread generously
Towards the light, the sky.
Yet taller stems boasting
Blooms, now long gone.
Autumn chills did soon
Make quick sport of us -
Robbing us of verdant life,
Of cover, strength, and joy!
Yet now we limply linger,
Our fiber crumpled, spotted;
Our once active veins,
Now stiff and sclerotic.
First frost finally, we fear,
Will quickly finish us off.
But - We surely will be
Back next year! - Stronger!
--JW, for Bart, 12/04/11.

Flickr's egold/ Eugene Goldin's "Antwerpen... Listening the organ" 2010

2011-11-11T10:45:00.001-06:00

Antwerpen... Listening the organ., originally uploaded by egold..

A Word of Thanks

This work touches my heart deeply, speaking as it does of so much that I think, believe, and welcome to see made visible, as you have done here. A really moving piece, that leaves me with much to think about. Thank you - yes, a simple phrase, but loaded with meaning , like your work, here seen.

-John Walford, 11/11/11

The Costs of Lust and Silence: A Grievous Lament

2011-11-11T09:19:00.003-06:00

See a child sodomized in the locker room.
What then to do? Quick, leave the room,
Tell your boss, and it’s no more yours to act.
Boss tells his boss, for he must, it’s no big deal,
Who tells his boss, who tells his boss the same.
Water down the tale, and quietly move on.

Eight years and eight boys later, maybe nine,
Or maybe more, first child becomes adult,
Now brave enough to speak up for himself.
The pattern and evidence speaks louder yet.
Four sets of silent lips, tumble one by one,
Eight scarred children stumble on in silence.

The alleged predator says he’s devastated,
Who would not be? – place on suicide watch.
For us all, weigh the worth of each human life.

John Walford, 11/11/11, Penn State Day.

Flickr's dou_ble_you's "Mind Interrupted," 2011

2011-10-28T23:58:00.004-05:00

Mind Interrupted, originally uploaded by dou_ble_you.

"On seeing and thinking"

I gaze, absorb, and think I see.
But is it what is there to see?
Can I trust my eyes? My mind?
May I write what I think I see?
Or will words falsely frame
What image cries not out?

-- JW, for UU, Oct 28, 2011.

"Splintered Thoughts That Hover in The Shadow-lands"

A disconcerting title to a truly compelling work - the lateral shadows, one with (self-)portrait, the spare, gloomy glimpses of light complementing it on the other side, and all the scattered colored facets in the center, like diamonds discarded with abandon. These elements all make for a memorable, and moving work. And yet, for all the closing out of light, there remains yet a glimpse of hope, that bleeds round the darkness of the shuttered sides. Terribly moving.

Flickr's 'unbearable lightness's "Colorful Clutter," Oct. 2011

2011-10-28T23:35:00.001-05:00

Colorful Clutter, originally uploaded by unbearable lightness.

"Sublime in Decline"

Tread carefully across the forest floor,
Eyes ever attendant to the carpet of fall.
Each tree sends its once-green canopy,
Tumbling to the waiting ground,
In a trumpet finale of red and gold.
Cling to the memory, until next Spring!

--JW, for 'unbearable lightness'/Kent Baldner, Oct 28, 2011.

Flickr's unbearable lightness's photo of Rembrandt van Rijn: Aristotle with a Bust of Homer

2011-10-28T23:16:00.001-05:00

Rembrandt van Rijn: Aristotle with a Bust of Homer, originally uploaded by unbearable lightness.

This painting moves me profoundly, every time I see it. It conveys this sense of human beings finding their inspiration and "soul mates" across time and cultures - and perhaps even into eternity - as indeed I feel towards how I imagine Rembrandt, through his art, and thus much as he expresses Aristotle's sense of the profundity of Homer. "Soul mates" - the meeting of hearts and minds - the beauty of existence - the sense of continuity - all this, despite vast changes of cultural and temporal context.

Flickr's Olli Kekäläinen's "A Piece," 2011

2011-10-23T11:29:00.001-05:00

A Piece, originally uploaded by Olli Kekäläinen.

"Softly, Softly"

So soft and gentle, caressing the eyes,
To the touch of the finger, it invites
Stretch forth the hand and find
It is but colored pixels on a screen.

--JW, for Olli Kekäläinen, Oct 23, 2011.

Fickr's Jacob Schere's "18-5 Wallflower"

2011-10-21T23:32:00.002-05:00

18-5 Wallflower, originally uploaded by jacob schere [ in prayer ].

"The Dance of the Wall Plants"

Like in a children's puppet show,
They pop their heads up from behind,
And in their mirthful glee,
Bounce and dance above the screen.
This leaves us wondering,
If we stick our hands through
The long, narrow opening,
Can we touch them
On the other side?
--JW, for Jacob Schere, in continuing respect for your acute sense for seeing and framing a captivating image from our otherwise mundane world, Oct 21, 2011.

Flickr's Ingrid Hedbavny's "Evidence of Life in the Forlorn Book 4"

2011-10-18T22:54:00.006-05:00

Evidence of Life in the Forlorn Book 4, originally uploaded by hedbavny.

"Paper Memorials"

With words we write
What we will preserve.
Why choose we paper,
Or think it will serve?

Trust to another,
What we did say,
Alas, forgotten,
Another day.

--JW, for Ingrid Hedbavny, October 18, 2011, in recognition of this stunning mediation on an unusual memorial.

Please note: This photograph is part of a sustained photographic study of an unusual memorial tombstone, in which lies a book, see: http://www.flickr.com/photos/hedbavny/sets/72157626546063366/

HOMAGE TO STEVE JOBS, Oct 5, 2011

2011-10-05T21:23:00.004-05:00

Homage to Steve Jobs, Oct 5, 2011, originally uploaded by johnwalford.

Homage to Steve Jobs, Oct 5, 2011

STEVE JOBS: Surely the most innovative, inspiring, and creative entrepreneur of his generation. His quest for perfection resulted in Apple Macintosh and other products that were and are a joy to handle, to use, and simply enjoy for their sheer aesthetic and functional excellence. With this simple image I both salute the passing of an inspiring individual, whose vision has enriched the lives of millions, and at the same time acknowledge the sad frailty of all of us mortals.
STEVE JOBS - WITH MILLIONS OF OTHERS - I SALUTE YOU, AND HONOR YOU IN YOUR PASSING, AFTER A LONG, COURAGEOUS BATTLE WITH CANCER, Oct 5th, 2011.

Respectfully, John Walford

Flickr's namerif13's "Prayerful Contemplation: Jerusalem," 1980, uploaded to Flickr, Sept 2011.

2011-09-29T19:08:00.002-05:00

Prayerful Contemplation: Jerusalem, originally uploaded by namerif13.

"Tomorrow, in Jerusalem"

The journey has been long.
The road has been hard.
So much been left behind,
And yet, finally, he savors
One day, in Jerusalem,
With the sun on his back,
And The Western Wall,
Steadfast, before him.

--JW, for doug fireman/namerif13, Sept 29, 2011.

Flickr's Bart van Damme's "Rijnhaven Sunset," 2011

2011-09-26T21:31:00.001-05:00

Rijnhaven Sunset, originally uploaded by Bart van Damme.

"Think Rotterdam in pictures - Think Bart van Damme"

For Rotterdam, in different lights,
For Rotterdam's various sights,
For Rotterdam, from various heights,
No better man, than Bart van Damme.

--JW, in appreciation for Bart's consistently beautiful architectural and other photographs, Sept 26, 2011.

Flickr's i_still_believe_in_u's "unpretty," of 2010

2011-09-20T23:56:00.001-05:00

unpretty, originally uploaded by i_still_believe_in_u.

" The artful Dodger"

I look, I see, I look again;
I try to see what I am seeing.
Of seeing there is no end.
In short, I am engaged!
And that is enough! Enough?
Enough to say "it's artful!"
-- A salute for i_still_believe_in_u, JW, Sept 20, 2011.

Flickr's Arunas Sileika's "Castle Valley" (taken 2008)

2011-09-14T22:07:00.002-05:00

Castle Valley, originally uploaded by Arunas S.

"Destiny Stands Open"

Stand in certain places,
Let the eye roam,
Carrying the mind,
To myriad destinations.
The freedom to choose
One way, over others.
The reality of our being.
--JW, for Arunas Sileika, Sept 14, 2011.

Flickr's Esthersita 1's "A Pause of Thought," 2011.

2011-08-08T12:00:00.003-05:00

A Pause of Thought., originally uploaded by Esthersita1.

A Pause of Thought.

"I looked for that which is not, nor can be,
And hope deferred made my heart sick in truth:
But years must pass before a hope of youth
Is resigned utterly.

I watched and waited with a steadfast will:
And though the object seemed to flee away
That I so longed for, ever day by day
I watched and waited still..."

"A Pause Of Thought " by Christina
Rosetti

A Second Pause for Thought - A Response to Christina Rosetti"

Why should I look for that which cannot be?
Why hope deferred when now it strong can be?!
I glance upon lucid glass, and perfectly sculpted shells,
Star fish, bending dried grasses, translucent glass - what tells?
Shells tell tales of numbers spun on a spiraled golden mean,
Glass translucent, that through what is seen, we grasp the unseen,
Light, number, harmony of the spheres, wondrously wrought,
Through the impassable, yet passable, shines the light -
Light of the world, in darkness ne'er extinct, seen, yet unseen.

--JW, for Esthersita 1, in honor of your myriad, and exquisite still lives,
August 8, 2011.

Flickr's Algo's "100 year hand," of 2005

2011-07-17T21:55:00.002-05:00

100 year hand, originally uploaded by algo.

I thought it would be interesting to juxtapose this photograph, by Flickr's Algo, and my reflection thereon, written in 2009, with what I wrote today, on seeing a reworking, in B&W, of one of his other "Hand" series:

"A Hand - A History"

It was so long ago, I do not recall,
And nor does she, long gone.
But this hand of mine once did grip
Its pink and pudgy flesh around
My Mamma's finger; and I looked
Up into her eyes, and wondered,
What will my Mamma feed me,
When bath me, when lay me
Down to rest, shake my rattle, sleep.

Mamma, now long gone, her eyes
But a feint memory, lined by age,
Her fingers, that touched so tenderly,
They let me go, and so did I grow.
Over so many years, so much I saw,
Before my hands lost their pulp.
Taught skin, gradually did sag,
Showing my bones more than I care,
Needs rest them now upon my purse.

Like the rings in the trunk of a tree,
These wrinkles of mine, they tell
A story, of fat years, and lean,
Laughter, joy, pain, and sorrow,
The motor car, a swirling satellite.
In war, famine, again war, and peace,
These hands have cut onions, sewed
Well-worn socks, turned the newspaper,
And opened my birthday cards,

One hundred times.
These hands of mine, that speak,
Algo saw, glowing in light,
And shared what few might see,
Hands, ripened by history.

--JW, for esteemed Algo, Nov 9, 2009.

Flickr's Algo's "hands," (B&W version), 2005/2011

2011-07-17T18:39:00.005-05:00

hands B&W, originally uploaded by algo.

"Hands"

In well-nigh one hundred, well-lived years,
I've touched so many, varied, other things;
And as many others have touched me.
Gently, softly, fiercely, harshly, tugging,
Pushing, bending, reaching, scratching,
I have laid my fingers out for others, --
As well as for my own will and grasp.
And I keep on scratching, reaching, still.

These fingers of mine, once the marvel
Of my mom and dad. They counted them,
And touched them, one-by-one, softly
Separating each from its neighbor,
Each a wonder, formed in the womb,
By manufacture, which no man touched.
The wonder of ten little fingers, poked
Into every crevice, holding a 'sippy cup'.

They have held my bottle, put ten thousand
Treats into my mouth, held pencils, pens,
Pots and pans, and, yes, knitting needles.
They have reached out, caressed the boy
I first did love, reached out again, yet again.
They fended off unwanted advances,
Straightened the creases of a party dress,
And now they are entwined around each other.

What yet will they touch, what germ, unwittingly
Bring from another to the nose? - And so to the lungs.
And what then? Gradually, they may lose their grip
On this transient world, and grasp at eternity. There
They will find a pair of hands, unlike all others,
Reaching out, ready to receive, merciful, warm,
Full of charity, ready to raise up, warm, and comfort -
An eternal balm, for all the aches that withered them.

-- JW, July 17, 2011, in honor of the this extraordinary lady, well nigh 100 years old, and still carefully trimming her nails, and to Algo, whose B&W version pleases my eye for its rich shadows.

Flickr's Ned Lyttelton's "birdshit," 2011

2011-07-16T11:08:00.001-05:00

birdshit, originally uploaded by Ned Lyttelton.

"Bird Stained Glass"

Some little bits
Undigested,
Caught in the
Oriental's brush.

--JW, July 16, 2011, for Ned Lyttelton,
master of the mundane, yet extra-ordinary.

Flickr's Ned Lyttelton's "nature imitating nature," 2011

2011-07-16T11:00:00.001-05:00

nature imitating nature, originally uploaded by Ned Lyttelton.

"What thrives, flies"

Plants branch, and spread their wings,
Reaching for bright light and warm air,
Which in turn lures the chrysalis to fly,
And flutter bye cast shadows on a bench.

--JW, July 16, 2011, in honor of the poetic sense of Ned Lyttelton, as seen here.

Andrew Herther (Picasia), Jedburgh Abbey, 2004

2011-07-13T12:00:00.003-05:00

"Long After the Monks Departed"

Sorry sight, the monks long gone -
Driven out by lofty reformers,
Timbers perished, vaults collapsed,
Stained glass ground back to sand.

No more the sound of the pig's squeal,
Slaughtered to fatten greedy monks.
No more the sound of the bell tolling,
Its mournful peal heard for miles around.

The bell called their sated bodies to prostrate
Themselves, thanking God for plentiful pork.
Fattened against the winter chill, warmed by
Deep red, raw and lusty drafts of wine.

Grass now grows where the canteen once was,
Fertile from many a spilled pot of goodness,
Idle hands fumbled from out their coarse robes,
Dropping goodness on the ground, in disregard.

And so it came to this. Proud abbey, so finely crafted,
In the best of local stone, glowing reddish-brown
In the soft evening light, grey in cold winter storms,
With little to block the cold, but ale and the fat of pork.

Here once chanted monks in deft unison, or sang
Their beloved Gregorian chants, echoed off the stone,
Vaults that sent plaintiff sound, destined for heaven,
Bouncing bank on the ears of those who chanted it.

Now but a lofty perch for occasional passing crows,
And, in winter, some resistance for the howling wind.
Its graveyards holding the secrets of bygone days,
Cottagers, before their eyes, sad memento mori.

-John Walford, for Andrew Herther, in thanks for stirring my heart, through his photography, with fond memories of Scotland and the Border Country,
July 13, 2011.

Flickr's Rita Crane's "Garden Glimpse, Mendocino Cafe," 2011

2011-07-12T15:58:00.001-05:00

Garden Glimpse, Mendocino Cafe, originally uploaded by Rita Crane Photography.

"Footsteps at the Gate"

Should I awake, this path to see,
Would think 'twas in a dream,
That still I slept, and dreamt,
Of a quiet retreat, atop a hill,
Where no car, nor phone was
Ever heard, but the sound
Of gulls, swooping in the bay.
And a rustic postman, unlatching
The gate: all's well with the world.
--JW, for Rita Crane, in boundless admiration for your art, July 12. 2011.

Flickr's Esthersita1's "Dream Variation, 2011.

2011-07-10T19:55:00.001-05:00

Dream Variation., originally uploaded by Esthersita1.

Sharp angles, crisp edges,
Translucent glass, so pure,
Passionate colors, forms,
Suspended for eternity
In frozen order, mesmerizes.
--JW, for Esthersita1, a little tribute, July 10, 2011.

The Alchemist's Workshop, VII, (or "The Pursuit of Knowledge"), 2008

2011-07-01T11:41:00.001-05:00

The Alchemist's Workshop, VII, (or "The Pursuit of Knowledge"), 2008, originally uploaded by johnwalford.

Prudence and the Internet: An Exchange of Ideas

I have been discussing with a bright, but younger friend, who studies Communications, the tricky issue of how to confront the pervasive, negative aspects of contemporary media, such as the easy and pervasive access to pornography, exposure of our fertile, but corruptible imaginations to every imaginable form of violence, and/or the temptation to spend hours alone at home, on social networking sites, as opposed actually being sociable. Thus, for example, we risk ending up to having a legion on-line virtual “friends,” but actually experiencing the social isolation of having live access to few, real, practical, helpful friends. To these examples we can all add other, analogous ills, that every parent of teenagers – even of yet younger children -- know all too well, to say nothing of what can equally come between a husband and wife.

In exchanges with my young friend, I had referred to the wise counsel of Martin Luther in face of analogous social ills of his time – such as the idolatrous and misleading power of art as used in the church of his day – who sagely cautioned that ‘abuse of a practice is not grounds to reject the practice per se, as otherwise one must first go out and destroy one’s own body.’ I have pondered the wisdom of Martin Luther’s counsel for years and years, and perceive it’s perennial wisdom, in face of whatever are the social ills that confront any of us, in our own time and place. His point is that all human culture – wherever found, whenever made, is shot through with intertwined, and virtually inseparable elements of good and evil. This is because all human culture proceeds from the human heart, which itself, as the generative force working on the potential of the created order, leaves its mark of intertwined good and evil in whatever it touches. The child carries the genes of the parents, the created order carries the marks of its Maker, and all the techne that humans devise is shot through with our own DNA, itself a mix of brilliant, good, not-so-good, and evil energies, powers, and devising.

I have therefore concluded, from Luther’s insight, that the challenge for those of us who seek to nurture what is good and curtail was is bad - to state it without nuance - is not to seek to eliminate the bad, and flee from it, because, firstly, where is there to go, where the corruption of the human mind, as well as its brilliant ingenium, has not gone before us, or, at very least, goes with us. Secondly, what then is left to us to embrace and enjoy, since all good is nevertheless shot through with traces of a downside, that is less desirable, to state it softly? Will we cut ourselves, and our children, off from the very technology and media that our own minds have devised, and which shimmer with potential – albeit, and as always, for good and evil alike? My conclusion is than we not isolate our children, or ourselves, from the technology and media of our day, but rather teach prudence in their use, and learn to manage ourselves, as users, rather than censor the technology, as vehicles and providers.

My thoughtful friend, in reaction to some of the above, responds, and I quote, “I am dissatisfied with responding to a wide-spread social problem (such as the effects of television and the Internet on literacy) with merely saying "use prudence! Become a master of the tool, do not be mastered by it yourself," when the reality of the situation is dire indeed. I feel like it's akin to moving to the suburbs as a method for dealing with inner-city crime. Sure it fixes YOUR problem, but what about the rest of the people who aren’t blessed with the resources (intellectual, social, monetary or otherwise).”

In turn, I respond as follows: “Yes, that is a fair critique, yet the response of "use prudence" should be taken also in a wider sense, "TEACH PRUDENCE."

Expanding on this idea, I seek to support my point-of view, and suggested strategy, with another theological perspective: The bible teaches that it is not what enters a person that corrupts them, but rather that "out of the heart of mankind proceeds all the issues of life." Now, think about it. If we were to face all the evils of society with a big stick, beating down every one until none was left standing, we would discover that we were striking Medusa, since for every head we cut off, six more would appear. Why? Because there is no end to what proceeds from the heart of humanity, and humans will always devise yet further perversity - until redeemed.

Thus, to raise children in the wisdom of the Lord, to teach discernment, to teach prudence, is to influence people’s attitudes and behaviors for good, which – to a degree- is an attainable goal, whereas overcoming the evils of society is beyond human reach. But as more people choose the good and refuse the evil, less people will devise evil, and more people will learn to live as wise as serpents and as gentle as doves, exercising discernment, and prudence, in their cultural dealings.

I acknowledge that there is certainly a place for lobbying for political action to abolish slavery, indeed injustices of all and any kind. That, equally, there is a place for the occasional Jeremiad about the evils of the Internet, there is for each Jeremiad the need for ten thousand voices, in ten thousand different places, teaching by example and instruction, however issued, on how best to handle the available resources with prudence and wisdom - whether the resource in question is oil, air, water, and/or any natural resources imaginable, be they brain cells, adept fingers, sperm, eyes, and those extensions of ourselves, that include email, texting, twitter, fritter, flickr, YouTube, blogging, Google +, Facebook, TV, movies, CDs, DVDs, mp3s, digital image manipulation, animation, Skype, etc. etc.

It always, and has always, come down to the heart, the spirit, the mind and the will of those who devise, and those who use, techne - ingenium - the devising of humankind - and always has been, ever since Cain used a club to kill his brother, when he could have used that same club to fend of a ravenous bear. Are you going to blame the club - or the one who wields it? I never heard a prophet or Christ, or an apostle preach against anything that humanity devised - but rather they preached against the usage to which humanity put such tools. Remember, we are created in the image of God, the prime deviser, and hence our capacity to devise. But the wrong is in our hearts, out of which proceeds all the issues of life. Scripture makes that very clear. Hence the prime target is not the devise, but the operations of the human heart. Hence the need, above all, to teach wisdom and prudence, as I indeed here strive to do. As a footnote - short of the Internet, I would not have been continuing this exchange of ideas, with my young friend, or at least it would have had to be deferred until we next saw one another. Whereas now, I have heard his critique of what he perceives as the apparent cop out of teaching prudence, and he can be thinking about his response, so that when we next see each other, we can proceed yet further. Besides, by writing my response to him, via Facebook, this text could be copied and pasted, as now it has been, and published for all who are curious to consider. Thereby a discussion between the two of us, can even reach a wider group, and in turn receive their consideration and subsequent input. Thus, I believe the Internet is an ideal forum for such exchanges of thought - and it costs far less, in time, effort, and money, that for all interested parties to fly or drive to a conference center, to thrash it out in a rented hall!

John Walford, Professor Emeritus of Art History, Wheaton College, Illinois, July 1, 2011

Flickr's Jacob Schere's "Six Points in the School Yard," 2011

2011-06-26T19:09:00.001-05:00

Six Points in the School Yard, originally uploaded by jacob schere [ in prayer ].

"No Fresher Possible"

So lusiously, luminously fresh,
So well placed within the frame,
Such sensitive seeing - no less -
Ensures Jacob Schere his fame!

-- JW, June 26, 2011

John Walford, "One Bare Bulb in the Darkness," 2011

2011-06-23T19:08:00.002-05:00

Down, down, yet further down, alone I trod,
Deep down through the layers of history -
For this slippery path descended into the deep,
Illumined by two, twisting, threadbare wires,
Separated from each other by mouse-mauled,
Ancient casing, with every thirty feet or so,
An old, bare bulb, blinking in the crepuscule,
There - precariously - to light one's way.
Way to where? - A pre-Christian Mithraeum,
Layers below an Early Christian, Roman church.

The further down, the more dank, and damp,
Slithery, slimy walls to steady oneself, twisting,
Turning, this way and that, always deeper, darker.
Now, far down in this desolate pit of darkness,
The nearest light bulb failed, and there I was.
How far had I descended, how many times turned,
And how possibly to reconstruct my path of descent,
With nothing to guide my path but all-pervasive slime,
And the Devil's cunning laughter, echoing off the grime.
Just damp and darkness for cruel, mocking companions.

Had there been someone to shine a light in my face
What would they have seen in my eyes but terror!
Did my hair stand on end, and never descend?
Did my taste for adventure melt like butter in sun?
Did I yearn for the surface, for the busy Roman street?
Did I yearn for human warmth to touch my hand?
But there was no one there to witness my terror -
A terror untold 'till this day, quite another day,
Secure, or seemingly secure in my study, writing
My friend Bruce Herman. But could I so hope then?

The chilly darkness wrapped round me like a shroud,
Buried alive, while tottering on my feet, aimless -
For who can aim anywhere, when utter darkness clings
And we enveloped from every side, with no respite?
Feel, fumble, tumble, totter in the damp darkness,
Totter, tumble, fumble, find once more my feet.
But where to direct them, on what stone to step?
Darkness, I found, laughs coldly at those it entraps,
While panic's chill penetrates to the shaking spine.
Until one fresh spark, in one old bulb, offers release.

-- JW, for Bruce Herman, in friendship, June 23, 2011.

Flickr's evamaria2010"s "The house of a storyteller," 2011

2011-06-10T00:33:00.001-05:00

The house of a storyteller, originally uploaded by evamaria2010.

"Our House of Dreams"

Everybody needs a house, a house built of dreams
Reality, the mundane, it just is not all that it seems.
Behind the desk, behind the face, behind the smile,
However all-together it may seem, way deep inside,
A person is more than their exterior, but dreams...
Everybody, everybody, needs a house of dreams.

Without such dreams, our house of dreams,
We shrivel up, we die inside. We die inside.
Waking in the morning, walking down the street,
What fills our searching minds, what drives our feet?
To work to eat and sleep, to sleep to work, to eat
Is not enough - we need our house of dreams.
--JW , for Eva, June 10, 2011.

John Walford's Springtime Promise, 2011

2011-05-26T23:18:00.001-05:00

Springtime Promise, 2011, originally uploaded by johnwalford.

“Under Our Noses: Things Happened Upon”

When British boys, of my breed, post-war generation,
Sought consolation from city life and social turmoil,
We had the memory of British poets, like Wordsworth,
And British painters, like Gainsborough and Constable,
Teaching us from schooldays to seek the picturesque.

Behind them all was Claude, with a dash of Ruisdael,
Who provided a frame, and a ready-made template,
Through which to look out on the world. England’s
Landscape, indeed, had been bent into same shape
By its rich Earls, as laid down by Mr. Capability Brown.

Thus reshaped into views, over grass, lakes and trees,
Soon tour guides would lead to the most ‘picturesque.’
Thus from canvas to terrain, it soon looked the same,
And young bloods were schooled to set out on a quest,
To find the best of the best, the pure ‘picturesque.’

Now, when tourism followed, with train and motorcar,
Folks came form afar, to catch a glimpse with the rest.
Yet better, with film camera, then digital too, each one
Could take home their own landscape simulacrum,
A framed view on the wall, to wander through, ad infinitum.

Old habits die hard, ‘til age bruises the heart, bends the neck,
And lowered, aged eyes discover a wondrous world underfoot.
When young and fleet, we trampled over it, heedless and blind.
When slow, bent, and ripe, it now yields to us its own lyric rhyme,
And at last we learn, that there, under foot, is found the sublime!
-- JW, on unlearning the sublime, the beautiful, and the picturesque,
May 26th, 2011, for my brother-in-law, Colin McC, on his 73rd birthday.

Traces of Time IV, 2011

2011-05-25T14:51:00.001-05:00

Traces of Time IV, 2011, originally uploaded by johnwalford.

"Remember, Remember, Remember the Day!"

Remember, remember, remember the day!
I well remember the way you looked at me.
A walk in the park, when you looked at me.
Such light in your eyes, it gave me such glee,
That your sweet heart looked at me that way.

My heart it did sing, I dreamed soon of a ring,
Your shining young eyes gave me hope that day.
One sideways glance, how much it can say,
Can I ever forget, what in my heart deep lay?
Your tender glance did make my heart sing.

Your tender glance did all your love betray.
Yet did you know, what your eyes said to me?
Were you then ready to give your self to me?
You leaned on my arm, given gladly to you,
We swayed together, we swore to be true.

We leaned on the bridge, gazed into the lake,
Watch ducks chasing ducks, hoping to mate.
You lit my ciggy, then threw lighter away.
I gave you Kit-Kat, then threw paper away.
Remember, remember, remember the day.

--JW, dedicated to a young, Hispanic couple,
I passed in the park one day, May 25th, 2011.

Flickr's Esthersita1's "Practical Magic," 2011.

2011-05-17T23:52:00.004-05:00

Practical Magic., originally uploaded by Esthersita1.

"Light, glass, and lemons"

As clean, as pure,
As lovely as can be!
Speaks to me of calm,
Freshness, and serenity!
I will be still, I will await,
Cast eyes from vase to glass,
Absorb leaves and lemons
- both yellow and green -
And tranquility comes to pass,
From the beauty of things seen.
--JW, for Esthersita1, May 17, 2011.--JW, for Esthersita1, May 17, 2011.

Flickr's Mafleen's "7 pots," 2011

2011-05-16T09:21:00.001-05:00

7 pots, originally uploaded by mafleen.

"A Family of Seven Pots"

There was a grandpa pot, and a grandma pot, a daddy pot, and a mummy pot,
Three little children pots, lots of good soil, nutrients, some small plants, and water!
There was light and there was water, water and light, day and night, night and day,
Then came the life-force, growth, vibrancy, texture, shape, smell, pattern, and color!
Seven little seed pods, some soil, and some tender-loving care, exercised in trust.
But is all began, with a wet, shapeless pile of worked, wet clay, on a potter's wheel.
--JW, for Mafleen, May 16, 2011.

John Walford, Easter Sunday Meditation, 2011

2011-04-24T16:15:00.002-05:00

This is the third visual, and written meditation that I have attempted for Good Friday, Easter Saturday, and now, Easter Sunday. You need to click on the image itself to see it and be able to read it. Thank you, if you give it your time and attention.

John Walford, Easter Saturday - A Meditation

2011-04-23T09:54:00.001-05:00

Walford, A Good Friday Meditation, 2011

2011-04-22T20:34:00.001-05:00

My big sister, Bindy McCorquodale, turns the big 70 Today!!!

2011-04-21T12:53:00.000-05:00

Make a free digital slideshow

For Artist Bruce Herman - Amidst Easter Week Travails and Hope, 2011

2011-04-20T12:01:00.001-05:00

For Bruce Herman - Amidst Easter Week Travails and Hope, 2011

Beloved, bubbling Bruce
Walking with a wobbly cane
- for now.
Such a state, see I
Only through a glass
Dimly. For I know not
This cane-carrying Bruce,
But one with a mahlstick,
The better to lay with precision
That last fleck of light in an eye.

Yet I also know that our Master
Talks to Bruce in the shadows,
The better to see in the light.
That he, in turn, will show us
In those heavy shadows
The trace of a divine finger
Pressing through our flesh,
Like grapes in a wine-press,
That the elixir of life burst
Forth, for all who have thirst.

Be well, brother Bruce,
For you are well-loved,
By all of us,
As well as uniquely loved,
By Him who sustains.
--JW, April 20, 2011.

Flickr's Bart van Damme's "Neeltje Jans Delta Works"

2011-04-05T23:28:00.001-05:00

Neeltje Jans Delta Works, originally uploaded by Bart van Damme.

Wind, Water, and Some Sand"

Zee-land, land-sea, push-pull, ebb-flow,
Under an ever-changing, restless sky,
Sand buffeted by wind and water,
Blowing, washing, sweeping all away.
Two people pass, and soon are gone.
Air, land and water, continue their dance,
Unheeding of this transient human presence,
Each force redrawing its boundary anew,
As for many long, millennia past,
And for whatever yet to come.
--JW, for Bart, April 5, 2011.

Flickr's Jacob Schere's "Standing Solo" - in Japan

2011-03-26T22:42:00.001-05:00

Standing Solo, originally uploaded by jacob schere [ in prayer ].

"Fallen Leaves and a Solo Broom"

How time can change the way we see,
Familiar things from another year.
This lone broom, waiting to sweep
Some scattered leaves from yesteryear.

Ivy drooping over a green-stained wall,
The sloping road, and red-paved path,
Waiting in innocence for a passer-by,
To take the broom, and sweep the leaves.

Who could have known, July last year,
It might not be a gentle hand that seized
The broom - nor that the earth would shake,
The sea would roar, sweep all away - but fear.

-- A lament for all lost and suffering in Japan,
and a prayer that time would witness the country
return to the graceful beauty of the single broom.
--JW, March 26, 2011, and in admiration of
Jacob Schere's poetic vision of Japan.

Flickr's Martin Beek's "St Mary's Lane, Oxford"

2011-03-25T22:14:00.001-05:00

St Mary's Lane, Oxford, originally uploaded by Martin Beek.

"Lewis's Lamppost"

What lends a street such allure?
A window here, there a door.
This recedes, and that projects,
An overhang in wood or stone.
The trace of time, stone reflects,
The stomp of boots, cobbles own
Resilient, softer now about the edge,
One lamp post, graceful, all demure.
Each day anew, the light a game
It plays, chasing shadow round again,
Tempting us out to broad street,
While lighting the path for our feet.

--JW, for Martin, on a Friday evening,
March 25, 2011.

Flickr's Ackteon's "Parisian Beaux-Arts copy of a Roman Youth"

2011-03-09T21:50:00.001-06:00

IMG_8376, originally uploaded by Ackteon.

"Vandalus vandalorum"

Way back in time, those Vandals
Did their worst to wanton Rome.
Beaux-Arts Parisians, undeterred,
Saw fit to nurture their students
On the same, ancient fodder -
For what better to be found?
Vandals unleashed wanton censure
On the beauty of the human figure.
New barbarians, untamed by time,
Unfeeling, just could not give a dime.

--JW, a lament on the instinct to vandalism,
March 9th, 2011.

Flickr's Algo's "the Wizards convene" 2006/2011

2011-03-09T15:12:00.001-06:00

the Wizards convene, originally uploaded by algo.

The Alchemists of Delphi"

Six fishermen in yellow "sou'westers"
Encrusted by time with golden algae,
Transforming them into alchemists,
Minute phalluses, loaded for Spring,
Gathered at Delphi's sacred stool
To entice Apollo out of his hiding,
And burnish the sky anew.

--JW, in praise of Nature's witticisms,
as captured by its watchman, Algo,
March 9, 2011.

Flickr's vision revision's "Wow an S," 2011

2011-03-09T12:33:00.001-06:00

Wow an S, originally uploaded by vision revision.

"Detente"

Dog thinks: Wish I were out there.
Squirrel thinks: Hold your distance.
Dog thinks: I'd be after you.
Squirrel thinks: I have the upper hand.
I think: this detente entertains.

- With thanks to "vision revision",
March 9, 2011.

Flickr's Renown Algo's "Cold enough for Frost," 2011

2011-03-09T12:14:00.001-06:00

Cold enough for Frost, originally uploaded by algo.

"Waiting for the Frost"

Limp leaves, long left by Autumn chill
Knowing frost provides a further thrill.

-- JW, for Algo, Nature's best watchman,
March 9th 2011.

Chantez Matines, Le Jour Reneit (Sing Mornings, Day is Reborn), executed 1922, published 1948, Plate # 29, The Miserere Series, By Georges Rouault

2011-03-07T22:26:00.004-06:00

Chantez Matines, Le Jour Reneit (Sing Mornings, Day is Reborn), executed 1922, published 1948
Plate # 29, The Miserere Series, By Georges Rouault,
(Aquatint, drypoint, and etching).

"Our Days Reborn"

Folds of terrain, turned back in on one another -
Desolate, barren, life and vegetation swept away;
Purged of human predation, people-less, pained
By the heavy groaning of wayward beings, those
Who struggled against their maker, loveless, lone.
Was it inner strife, recent war, or time most remote?

Sky too, wild and thunderous, savagely threatening
In its heavy, dark tones. What foreboding hovers there,
Ready to drench the earth with relentless downpour.
And yet, without rainbow, light and life is not erased.
The sun, months hidden, relenting, shows itself again,
And a dove, released from the ark, heads for land.

--EJW, for Roger and Sue Lundin, as we share such
light as we have been given, on the occasion of your
Rouault acquisition, March 5th, 2011.

Flickr's DrAMJ's "Neath Abbey," 2011

2011-03-07T19:00:00.001-06:00

Neath Abbey, originally uploaded by DrAMJ.

"The Abbot's Lodge"

Where once the fat abbot his stomach did fill,
Wind blows, birds nest, and rain enters at will.

-JW, homage to the fine eye of DrAMJ, March 7, 2011.

Flickr's DrAMJ's "Corfe Castle, Dorset," England, 2011

2011-03-07T18:49:00.001-06:00

Corfe Castle, Dorset, originally uploaded by DrAMJ.

"Never Fully Forgotten"

Corfe Castle, long ago
By its owners abandoned.
But by land still nobly framed,
And sunset forgets you not.

- Nor the eye of a keen photographer!
JW, with thanks to DrAMJ for stirring in me
long-dormant memories of Corfe Castle.

Flickr's Millinerd's "Office Window"

2011-02-23T23:14:00.004-06:00

Office Window, originally uploaded by millinerd.

"A Groundless Icon"

There is one ground that never shifts -
It's not the rock nor soil I stand on!
It's not the foundations of the house,
That my weary body sleeps in.

That one ground that never shifts,
As Greeks and Russians do aver -
The gilded ground of the sacred icon -
Of eternal verity assures unchangeable.

What dastardly heresy, what shame
Of shames! What untruth, betrayal,
To limn the Holy Mother, with her
Yet more Holy Son, on a sheet of glass.

Glass - transparent, veil-less veil,
Sullied by every transient shadow,
Corrupted by the passing world,
No ground for eternal verity.

Woe is me! I am undone!
The impassable passable
Is rendered into time,
Out of synch with eternity!

Great heresy! The shame of it!

-JW, lamentation for a sundered icon, 2/23/11.
The Greek blood in me shudders!

John Walford - "Folly's Mirror -On Photographic Theory and Praxis," 2011

2011-02-06T11:47:00.010-06:00

Folly's Mirror, 2011, originally uploaded by johnwalford.

“On Photographic Theory and Praxis”

To think, to act, or not to act, that is the question!
Whether it is better to enjoy the scintillating fruits
Of unarticulated talent, or to dissect with academic
Jargon the nature of photography? Unkind fate -
To let me agonize so, when others just do it...
To theorize, or to act, that is the question,
Or to act on theory, or to theorize about action,
Or, in deliberating, to remain paralyzed, able neither
To think or to act? Woe is me, I am undone!
To be a photographer or a theorist, or theoretically
A naïve photographer? Or a thinking photographer?
Woe is me, I am entirely undone! Yes! It is no snap.

Yin-Yang; Yang-Yin; Perhaps I think best by doing!

-- John Walford, February 6, 2011, with thanks to Elias and Grace Cannell, for drawing these thoughts out of me, in raising with me the question.

Excerpts from a dialog on Facebook about theory and praxis in photography:

Eli Cannell
Do photographs re-present objects or merely record them? I'm confused!

E. John Walford
ALL human-made images say something ABOUT reality, they for sure do not "record" objects, except when used in strictly scientific conditions. But also, in re-presenting people or objects, they say something ABOUT how the maker perceives them - it is not objective - well, maybe the prison mug shot comes close to that - falling closer to the scientific mode of recording a likeness. But just look at that wonderful photograph of your stunning wife, face lined by the fur rim of her coat hood, gazing at the viewer, (recently gazing at us all from her Facebook page) and tell me its just about re-presenting an "object!" - or indeed a "person" - which I believe said Grace to be!

Eli Cannell
( [The following] aren't my thought necessarily, just my understanding and rewording of Dominic McIver Lopes in "Philosophy of film and motion pictures: an anthology").
The more I learn about the theory behind photography (as I study "media" for my major), the more I realize my wife "gets things" naturally without the aid of an expert's verbalization. I, on the other hand, seem to make connections 6 months or more later than she does. :)

Celluloid film (and digital photography) are the product of a mechanical causal process. In other words, the photograph is a conduit for the "content" (the real-life object), whereas the content of a painting is the medium (the how) and the subject (the what). Of course there are style issues within the control of the artist (such as focal length, framing and the exact moment a photo is taken: all things that de-contextualizes the object photographed and give it meaning outside of the original context), but a photograph is essentially a different medium than a painting (or any other art form that is not a literal translation of reality, for that matter). For the painter, "everything" in the painting is a representation of "how the maker perceives" those things. A photograph is a "record" of reality from a different perspective (not a fictional perspective?). Further more, a painting does not "entail that the object exists," (it could be merely fictional) whereas a photograph does suggest that the object is real.

I was reading in a book today that made me reconsider everything I thought about photography. The idea was about "photographic transparency". Here's a quote defining it:

" To say that photographs are transparent is to say that we see through them. A person seeing a photograph of a lily, literally sees a lily. She does not see a lily face-to-face, for there is no lily in front of her; nor is the photograph a lily - it is an image of a lily. Rather, her seeing a lily through a photograph of a lily is like her seeing a lily in a mirror, through binoculars, or on a closed-circuit television system. As in all these cases, seeing a lily through a photograph is indirect seeing in the sense that the lily is seen by seeing the image; even so, indirect seeing is seeing."

When we see a photograph, we are literally seeing the object the photograph is of, not just the photograph.

Your suggesting that the controlled elements that differentiate one photographer's photo from another photo of an object (focal length, framing, grainyness, etc) are what make the photograph subjective, even though the object is technically and necessarily objectively real in the photograph?

E. John Walford
I appreciate what is articulated above, and yet neither theorist fully gets to the complexity of a photographic image.

1) It is true that a photograph is different from a painting, in that all elements of a painting are consciously, and manually constructed by the painter -and therefore make visible what is in the painter's mind's eye. By contrast, it is true that there must be an object of some sort and light as well, before a photograph can start to be made.

2) Yet, I think it is a fallacy, or at least misleading, to say that photographs are transparent. In one sense, on the most fundamental and simplistic level, this may seem to be the case, which is why the idea once arose that "the photograph cannot lie, and therefore can be used as evidence in a court of law."

3) However, that implies the most direct and non-manipulated use of photography, as in say a police mug shot, in other words, when the camera is used as a scientific instrument, to record visible data.

4) Most photography - even documentary photography - is something subtler -because the photographer uses his or her knowledge of the camera and the medium to convey an impression of something the way they have seen it and want it to be seen by others. It is impossible to underestimate the amount of selection that goes on in the mind and actions of a good photographer to make something turn out the way they want it to be seen. In that process, transparency is erased, even if its semblance remains, which is one reason why photographs can be so compelling, and have such a strong sense of immediacy.

5) Of course Photoshop and digital manipulation extends #4 yet further, bringing the finished product into a realm closer to a painting. I strive, thus, in my own practice to see how far I can push the medium to make thought, and the realm of the invisible, visible.

E. John Walford
I guess where I was leading to in points 1-5 above, is the remarkable fact that even though photographers use a mechanical device, the trademark stamp of an intelligent, thoughtful user's vision is so pronounced that, even among the thousands of photographs from my contacts that I have by now seen on Flickr, I can now pick out--often even in the thumbnail of "your contacts recent uploads"--the distinct characteristics of any given photographer's work.

Thus, even without reading the up-loader's name, I SEE from the type of image, quality of color and light, composition, and subject, etc, etc, EVEN in the thumbnail, I can often recognize it as the work of X, Y, Z, because it has a certain "flavor" to it that I have come to associate with their work.

This does not work for run-of-the-mill work, nor family snapshots, but for that more carefully and thoughtfully made, or snapped on the basis of long, and now intuitive experience.

It is on the basis of this experience, that I hold the conviction that photography can be just as personal a form of expression as painting or drawing, and that the greater the individual is a master of the medium, the more effectively he or she can use it to embody NOT a transparent mediation of the object out there, in front of the camera, but a particular person's discrete mode of perception, sensibilities, likes and dislikes, sense for color, tone and texture, and much, much more.

I hope that helps feed your thought processes. But note: This is theory forged from the long experience of viewing, and does not come from books, nor authorities.

From a Facebook exchange between Elias Cannell and John Walford, Feb 5, 2011.

What Said Diderot of Ruins

2011-02-05T00:04:00.005-06:00

What Said Diderot of Ruins?

Ackteon, in modern dress, living in France,
Liked to quote Diderot, the old Encyclopedist,
Writing of ruins: "The ideas ruins evoke in me
Are grand. Everything comes to nothing,
Everything perishes, everything passes,
Only the world remains, only time endures.
How old is this world! I walk between two eternities.”
So said the French sage! And so it is, and yet...

Diderot, an enlightened man, also keen of eye,
His friends called him Denis, to me lush words
He wrote of Boucher and Chardin. None better!
But Diderot did measure knowledge with a compass
Merely crafted by the human mind - thus flawed!
Should he think "only the world remains," his bones,
In for a shock they are! For with time, enduring yes,
This world, and his old bones made new will be!

--JW, in response to Ackteon, quoting Diderot, Feb 4, 2011,
see: http://www.flickr.com/photos/73553452@N00/3441421584/,
as well as the post immediately below.

Flick'r Ackteon's Eastlake's "Lord Byron's Dream"

2011-02-03T23:18:00.001-06:00

Lord Byron, originally uploaded by Ackteon.

"Poet's dream painted"

Ponder deeply Eastlake's dream of Byron's dream,
Imagined lying among the ruins of a wondrous past,
Sweeter in its ruin, since built with the toil of slaves.
The past, invading dreams, to torment and provoke
In waking minds the doubt as to truth, foreboding, or
Whatever stirs our restless, yet sleeping souls?

-JW, for Ackteon, the scout of beauty's trace, Feb. 3, 2011.

Flickr's Arnfinn Lie-Norway's "Atmosphere" 2010

2011-02-02T22:44:00.001-06:00

Atmosphere, originally uploaded by Arnfinn Lie-Norway.

"When the Atmosphere Hangs Low"

When the atmosphere hangs low, and there is water to reflect,
Trees and hills take on a mystery, the photographer can't neglect.

- JW, with thanks for posting such a beauty! Feb 2, 2011.

Flickr's donvucl's "trousers"

2011-01-30T17:06:00.002-06:00

trousers, originally uploaded by donvucl.

"Cool, man, cool!"

You gotta give it to me man -
I's looks good in 'em plaid pants!
As the music rocks, so rocks I's,
black 'en white man, it's on de plaid
De brown der under, dats de skin,
Plaids de thing for us rockin' guys!

- JW, sorry, I can't bring myself to write "trousers" after 30years in the States.
Jan 30th, 2011.

When Less Costs More: Buying a Piece of History, 2011

2011-01-30T13:09:00.007-06:00

Kasimir Malevich, Painterly Realism of a Football Player: Color Masses in the 4th Dimension, 1915, acquired by The Art Institute, Chicago, 2011.

When a Malevich came on the auction block,
Someone paid out, in dollars, sixty million.
Then another, from the same batch, was sold
To Chicago’s Art Institute, for undisclosed sum.

What a catch, what a prize, in one hundred years,
Nay!, In one hundred and thirty-two years, rarely
A piece so significant- for this be one of the rarest
And most storied of Russian Suprematist paintings.

Now what is that, you say! A supreme Russian painting,
Or a Suprematist painting from Russia? Why the big deal?
It’s clear: The Institute lacked a Russian avant-garde work.
What a coup, to fill, in the collection, such a glaring gap!

Joe, in the newsroom, glanced at the picture, thought Hum!
Turned to the title for enlightenment, but found none.
What to make of the Painterly Realism of a Football Player,
When all he saw was one green circle, and seven other shapes.

Glancing back at the subtitle, searching for a lead, he finds
“Color Masses in the 4th Dimension,” and a date, 1915.
Looks again, seems but two dimensions, flat, colored shapes
Laid over a neutral whitish-gray field, and starts to do the math.

Hypothesize some sixty-million dollars – perhaps even more!
Imagine what that looks like, laid out in glimmering gold bars!
Imagine what that purchases, besides a flashy fleet of fine cars!
Then he looks back at the canvas, as if back in the artist’s studio.

Kasimir Malevich must have been one heck of a man! – Surely bold.
By 1912, he already had a name, painting cubo-futuristic works,
Inspired by the famed bohemians of the Paris art world. Ah Paris!
And then there was the Dutch Mondrian, heading the same way.

While Mondrian, in nineteen-twelve, still let in the hint of a tree,
A Russian could become a Suprematist, and why not me?
So Kasimir prepped his canvas, a mere 70 x 44 centimeters,
A monotone ground, all off-white-gray! – Then almost done!

Two black rectangles, and one more off-black and skewed;
Four wedges of primaries, red, blue and yellow, all floating
Above the off-white-gray ground, seemingly sprung from
One small neat circle, colored a monochrome green!

That should do it, muses Malevich, less would end as
White-on-White – yes, why not, but just not yet, because
What then comes next? Could he have dreamed, some day,
Some other would value his day’s work at some sixty million!?

Did I say, sixty million? Sixty million dollars – no less?

Now, how many people, worked how many days,
For how many years, over how many lifetimes –
To put aside sufficient surplus to pay for that?
A 70 x 44 cm canvas, with but eight daubs of color?

-- JW, January 30th, 2011.

Flickr's Donvucl's "a small amount of clarity"

2011-01-29T18:34:00.004-06:00

a small amount of clarity, originally uploaded by donvucl.

"The Tower on the Hill"

I was born in this tower
Set high on a hill.
My mother a prisoner
Of a vulnerable king.

We spent our lives in
This little stone tower,
Isolated and cold,
And, for hope, she
Held me up to the window.

See there meadows!
See there trees!
One day my son,
You will run, and be free.

Now, at fourteen, I stand
There alone. My mother,
She died. The window,
Grew dirtier. As for me...

I gaze through that clearer
Part of the glass, recalling
My mother's words, and I wonder:
Can I live with that small amount of clarity?
--JW, for donvucl, who cleared for me,
some of the dirt off the pane, Jan.29, 2011.

Flickr's Sandeep K Bhat's "Happy Feet," 2009

2011-01-15T15:52:00.001-06:00

Happy Feet, originally uploaded by Sandeep K Bhat.

"Ten Smiley Faces"

Such feet belong alone to our time and place -
Still fine of form, unbent, not blistered by restraint,
Clean, scrubbed, not worn from working in the fields,
Protected by silk socks, wrapped in luxury leather,
Oiled down twice a year, put up by the fire place,
Where little hands added to each, ten smiley faces.

-JW, for Sandeep K Bhat, wishing you all the best for 2011.

Flickr's Manuel Orero's "Everlasting" 2011

2011-01-13T23:25:00.001-06:00

Everlasting, originally uploaded by Perolo Orero - www.orerofotografia.com -.

"Three Old Guys"

Fifty years ago, they first walked this way,
Fifty years later, they ask: What did you say?
Wind, wafting through the canopy of trees,
Whispers,"What others miss, Manuel Orero sees."

--JW, for Manuel Orero, 1/13/11.

My own "Shaft of Light on Christmas 2010 Table Decorations," Jan 2011

2011-01-02T21:32:00.003-06:00

Shaft of Light on Christmas 2010 Table Decorations, Jan 2011, originally uploaded by johnwalford.

"One Sunbeam Sufficient"

A year can be filled with dark shadow, and deep fear.
Look back and see, shafts of light, they always were there.
Look forward to a new year, whatever befalls,
Light breaking into darkness, each Christmas recalls.

--JW, for all who struggle with unemployment, loss,
loneliness, uncertainty, doubt, and even death,
January 2nd, 2011, hopefully not one day too late for some.

Martin Beek, Selected Drawings, 2010

2010-12-29T19:21:00.002-06:00

Drawings 2010 Header, originally uploaded by Martin Beek.

"Trees, Lanes, and Fencing Posts"

Without technology, life I can hardly now imagine.
There's a succulent delight in colored, digital imaging!
Yet twenty-four drawings, in a distinct human hand,
Responding to landscape, under eye's command -
Trees, lanes, and fences, so easily passed bye,
In such drawings, calm solace, consolation does yet lie.

--JW, in honor of Martin Beek's poetic eye and hand,
Christmas 2010, and wishing you sustained effort through
2011, and long beyond.

Flickr's "paho47"s copy of an approx. 100-year-old photo: "Happy Strangers!"

2010-12-29T18:51:00.001-06:00

Happy Strangers!, originally uploaded by paho47.

"Tough Girls"
There once was a time, when the girls were tough,
Out in the snow, some sleeveless, used to life rough.
No hot, running water, nor warm, central heating,
These girls could survive a cold snow-storm beating.
--JW, for paho47, Christmas, 2010.
With best wishes for 2011!

My own "The Wandering Hieronymite, II, 2010"

2010-12-19T12:53:00.001-06:00

The Wandering Hieronymite, II, 2010, originally uploaded by johnwalford.

"The Wandering Hieronymite"

There once was a Hieronymite, wandering the world,
Who started out decadent, although he’d been told
That prosperity awaited, if strictly diligent at school.
Having tried such a regimen, preferred to play the fool.
But the pleasures of folly no lasting peace did him afford,
So, in search of letters and learning he wandered abroad.
Long, hard study, mindful struggles did for folly atone,
And soon the young Hieronymite was no longer alone.

In course of such studies, did one Hieronymus come to light,
Whose strange visions of evil deeds did his imagination ignite.
The mind of that Tree-Man was seeped in weird, religious lore,
In which men swam in bird’s eggs, eating strawberries galore.
While one scrawny traveler, his lone journey undertook,
Sandro’s entranced Mercury, the wanderer’s plight forsook.
Old St. Jerome did indeed have his ardent penance to do,
But not without teaching that we, too, must turn old into new.

-- John Walford, December 19, 2010

The Nativity - A Fresh Look

2010-12-14T14:05:00.003-06:00

John Walford, The Nativity, 2010 (Inspired and adapted from Gerard van Honthorst’s Nativity, 1622 (Wallraf_Richartz Museum, Koln), with thanks to each photographer for elements that contribute to this piece, for use of which all efforts have been made to obtain permission. My thanks also to Immanuel Presbyterian Church, whose 2010 Christmas lessons and carols service caused me to reflect on the significance of the ox and ass.

"The Nativity - A Fresh Look"

No misplaced marvel, incalculable wonder,
By science unexplained, and unexplainable!
A virgin birth, the boys in high school know,
Comes not ever into being, never so conceived.
A trick of language? A wicked rumor spread?
Or a matter of divine breaking of His own rules?

Who daily the world spins on its axis, made it so,
Each night, day follows, He deemed it thus to go.
This one child’s mother Virgin pure stayed she,
So we know, her son both flesh and divinity to be.
Of saccharine, smiling, nativity greetings cards
So soured am I! They lie, for surely it was not so!

Only the unknown, the outcast to a stable sent,
For richer folks, for inn space, their money spent.
Poor shepherds, out in the fields, tattered clothes,
Poor protection from the chill, were open to learn,
To heed wondrous words, that angels did disclose;
And what those richer folks did not dream or know,
Was put in the mind of an ass and ox to show.

--- John Walford, Christmas 2010, from a heart
overflowing with wonder and deep gratitude,
and wishing all family and friends likewise.
With our shared affection, John & Maria W.

Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!

2010-12-13T20:51:00.002-06:00

Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!, originally uploaded by Heniusia.

Much frost and two crows"

Robert Frost may count the cost,
Of isolation, beneath the snow.
But as for me, this blanket ice,
Enjoyed in company of two crows.
--JW, for Heni, with thanks for all your supportive comments,
and best wishes for Christmas and the New Year.

Flickr's dou_ble_you's "Outlandos de'Amour", 2010

2010-12-11T16:33:00.001-06:00

Outlandos de'Amour, originally uploaded by dou_ble_you.

"Two forlorn keys"

He had the key; he had the key!
Yet, somehow, it never turned.
I waited long, felt so forlorn,
Wondered aloud, is he so proud,
And yet - he never came.
- JW, for UU, December 11, 2010.

My own "Purple Orchids by Fireplace," Dec 2010

2010-12-03T22:30:00.002-06:00

Purple Orchids by Fireplace, Dec 2010, originally uploaded by johnwalford.

"Orchid Hierarchy"

How is it to be an orchid?
Earth's goodness, sky's light
Stored in strong and waxy leaves.
Proud stems lifting heads high,
And blooming out along the stem.
First to open, has some pride,
Until a second it overshadows.
Soon a third, and a fourth, more,
As the first already shrivels,
Leaving the last as first in sight.

First to catch the sunlight; first
To attract the humming bee;
First to draw the human eye,
Out front, first before the lens
That focuses on its succulent
Chamber of sensuous delights!
Last, now first! Sun-drenched,
Color drenched, saturated,
And drenched in attention -
Just like the last-born child.

-- JW, on the delight of orchids,
December 3, 2010

Flickr's redoubtable UU (dou_ble_you)'s "NeverMORE"

2010-11-28T00:54:00.007-06:00

NeverMORE, originally uploaded by dou_ble_you.

"Tomorrow More Than We Expect"

Night, we allow, it must be dark; its secrets hide
In deep shadows; none intrude, except by way
Of dream. Lone Paul so found her and did chide,
"Why lie you so sulking? Night is for play?"

Swimming seed may leave traces for the morrow,
But, by then, Paul will be elsewhere, brush in hand,
Some other South-Seas mermaid under command,
The first, fatter, cold, alone, abandoned, only sorrow.

Dare then UU write of sweet tomorrows, or only
That they hold more promise than we dare expect?
For how was today: drifting through time, so lonely,
Sleep our best escape, laughter lost to sad neglect.

Whence then came blind words like "faith," "promise,"
And "expect?" Expect what from whom, from where?
Promise whom? Where's trust? And faith - it's premise?
Like the wind, felt keenly, unseen, spirit of the sphere.

-- JW, for UU, on receiving a most welcome, and surprising, Pre-Raphaelitian gift!
American Thanksgiving weekend, Nov 27-28, 2010

My own "Each His or Her Own Secret, 2010"

2010-11-25T17:03:00.001-06:00

Each His or Her Own Secret, 2010, originally uploaded by johnwalford.

"Each His or Her Own Secret"

Hers, for the taking, was beauty, glamour, wealth,
And fame, deceptive rewards such life delivered.
How many bored, and lonely housewives, trapped
As they thought, in domestic monotony, dreamed
That their lot had fallen like hers, all for the taking!
Her secret? Some promising features, hair dye,
Eye shadow, lip stick, a face lift, and dental floss.
What did she gain? The world’s attention – her loss.

His, through much heart searching, struggle, pain,
Unseen, unwatched, in the darkness of the night.
Alone, even amidst family and friends, in a battle
Fought in the soul – almost alone – but not quite so!
Unseen, guardian of the believer’s soul, in doubt,
Yet holds our head just above the raging waters;
For buried deep within the stony tissue of hearts,
A fount of living water flows yet unseen – our gain.

Fix your gaze on Carls-berg, consider its granite mass,
See from its side flow forth, first blood, then living water.
Choose well your hope – unfailing streams, or dental floss.

-- John Walford, for Carl Wilder, Thanksgiving, 2010.

My own "Remembrance & Thanksgiving," 2010

2010-11-21T21:36:00.004-06:00

Remembrance & Thanksgiving, 2010, originally uploaded by johnwalford.

(This was a table centerpiece for a dinner party that took place more than a year ago. I just could not throw it away, and it finds a new setting among the fall leaves, still possessing a radiant, though faded beauty).

"Remembrance and Thanksgiving"

Will it be the same round of turkey, sweet potatoes,
And the feeling of excess - while others go short?
Will it be the same old family gathering, the same jokes?
And an undercurrent of covert digs, jest, and teasing?
Will we drink the same wines, in the same sequence?
Or could it be that this year's Thanksgiving will excel?

There is in truth so much for which to give thanks.
Two new grandchildren safely delivered to this world -
And both flourishing. Other grandchildren, also thriving.
Much for which to give thanks, and thanks we will give.
Even trials and sorrows have yielded to peace and joy,
Even cold darkness has yielded to the return of warm light.

Yes, we will give thanks; we will all give hearty thanks.
Be thankful for one another; for home and shelter,
For food and employment; yes, thanks for activity -
Activity that sometime strains the nerves, stresses
Out, and wears us down - yet for the gift of rest, for
Week-ends, and sleep, for restoration, we give thanks.

Thanksgiving calls for remembrance, and such is
Bitter-sweet. For so is all existence, like these flowers:
Once fresh and radiant, now dried and faded. Once
The centerpiece for a celebratory meal, now set aside -
But not yet abandoned for good - for still it offers itself
To the patient, thoughtful eye - as, indeed, do I!

--JW, Thanksgiving, November 2010,
my last before retirement from full-time teaching.

My own "Longing, Pain, and Choices," 2010

2010-11-13T22:00:00.003-06:00

Longing, Pain, and Choices, 2010, originally uploaded by johnwalford.

"Longing, Pain, and Choices"

I was a young man, dreaming, and she a maiden,
But from different worlds we came. Our families
Spoke not to one another; would not, thought
They should not, for such was deemed improper.

The "proper" sort, well-bred, rich, I knew full well,
Smart in dress, empty heads, their ranks were swell.
I scoured these belles, but dull and empty, dry shells,
Never needed they to search, to strive, to think well.

What comes with ease, does, with ease displease.
When nothing can for granted be taken, or received,
The soul ripens, the mind grows strong, and, yes,
Fine character from such challenge is perceived.

Such treasure did I stumble on, in secret met,
Down in the woods, inside the hollow tree.
Two souls, for each other made, the glee!
And yet, my father said, she's not for me.

Which force the stronger be - love or family?
And where does loyalty owe its last allegiance?
How does a young man know to set his course?
When passion, instinct, with conformity clash?

Are our elders always wiser? Lived longer,
But by what star have they set their compass?
Are the young always so short-sighted?
Lived less, but what if they have seen the star?

That star, once shining in the East, wise men saw,
And followed to their destiny, with no regret.
And thus did I, have I, and will I, till I die,
And never once did know sustained regret.
--- JW, for Maria, thinking of August 1972.

(This grew out of memories of a work by Max Ernst, Vive l'amour (Le Pays Charmant), 1923, St Louis Art Mus, Miss. Ernst's painting depicts a couple enclosed by a tree-like structure, in a landscape, feint echoes of which underlie the image of this young couple.

With sincere thanks to Constance and Mercer S., for patiently modeling, also with their parents' consent.)

Flickr's h.koppdelaney's "Apart," 2010

2010-11-10T20:38:00.001-06:00

Apart, originally uploaded by h.koppdelaney.

"Mesmerized"

What is it about a person staring at a person staring,
When we are staring at the person staring at a person staring?
We become by them mesmerized, and share their stillness.
--JW, for h.koppdelaney, Nov. 10, 2010.

Jan Laurens Siesling's "Die Blaue Blume," 2010

2010-11-08T22:17:00.007-06:00

"Die Blaue Blume"

It started with a seed, but how did the seed
Get started? How did the seed know its need?
A protective pod, to keep off what? Bees? Birds?
Rain for a season, and then a season for rain.
Some instinct to swell in warm, moist soil,
And the desire to push down deep roots,
Down into rich, moist soil, down into darkness,
Bending round rocks, and avoiding worms.

Once dug down, and rooted, ready to go;
Ready to reach up to the light again.
Breaking ground, now sensing sunlight,
Risking a little green shoot, thrust air-born.
How wonderful the freedom, to rise up,
And sway in the spring winds, growing stronger.
Arms and legs put on some muscle, and extend,
Pushing forth buds, bulging with promised bloom.

Bloom, bloem, luxuriant flower of the dawn,
Twine your sinuous tendrils around a trellis,
Cling for your life, open your blue canopy,
And there you have it – full-fledged, fragrant --
In all its fresh, resplendent morning glory:
Die blaue blume – bleu, blue, and blooming!
Bursting from its curving, dancing, sappy stem,
Nodding its jolly face towards the light of life.

What inner force turns her face to the sun?
What force opens her blue, curving canopy?
What imagination forges a floral umbrella –
With delicate, frilled edges, so feminine, so frail?
Who wound blue threads so succulently soft,
On such a slender frame? Who its pliant stem?
And then… who cares to walk around behind,
Allured by light, filtered blue, blu, bleu, blaue?

- It turned around, and bloomed for you!
-- John Walford, for Jan Laurens Siesling, Nov 7, 2010

Flickr's NYC.andre's "Life's simple and priceless pleasures"

2010-11-07T22:54:00.002-06:00

Life's simple and priceless pleasures, originally uploaded by NYC.andre.

"Fountain of Youth - Test of Character"

Never mind that tall towers block further passage;
Never mind that manicured trees must make do -
Spaced between the concrete, and railings.
Never mind the other kid, who has taken off his shoes.

All that matters, is that one boy, entering, yet hesitant,
Seeks the thrill of the soaking, yet hesitates. He's
The cautious type, apprehensive, he knows that
It might just be a tad too cold - who knows for sure?

And so, tentatively, head tilted, arm tilted, knee too,
Drenched in filtered sunlight, still yet himself dry,
Body braced to fend off the worst, absorb the best,
He enters the fray, and is cooled by the spray.

--JW, for NYC.andre, Nov 7, 2010, for impeccable timing,
and a masterful grasp of human actions.

My own "Rotting Log Cradle," Fall 2010

2010-11-03T12:10:00.002-05:00

Rotting Log Cradle, Fall 2010, originally uploaded by johnwalford.

While my mind keeps reflecting further on this piece, made over the weekend, it seems but ten words this time suffice:

With the leaves, fall the seed;
Each Autumn promises Spring.
--- JW, Nov 1, 2010

Flickr's Millinerd's "Princeton Cemetery in Fall"

2010-10-28T18:20:00.010-05:00

IMGP2828, originally uploaded by millinerd.

"Tempus Omnia Terminat"

Here lies, here lies, lies who?
Jonathan Edwards, you say!
Yet who pays attention -
Anymore? Markers of
Mortality, rows of carved stone
Once lovingly placed, now -
perhaps - a perch for a bird.
Better to plant young trees,
Than grave, grave stones.
- JW, for Matt Milliner, Oct 28, 2010.

Salvador Mundi Still Life Banner, on gray, 2010

2010-10-26T18:27:00.001-05:00

Salvador Mundi Still Life Banner, on gray, 2010, originally uploaded by johnwalford.

"Dried Petals with Red Wool Caught on a Twig"

Heat ravished, sap drained,
Shriveled and crinkled - and yet -
When flowers and leaves their
Season served, eyes nourished,
Must we then simply let them go?
Squirrels drop empty walnut shells;
An acorn of two, gone un-foraged,
A second life they can yet live.

Let them sit, these seasoned beauties,
Stiffening with age, fragile as can be.
Why do they have to perish? The eye
They yet delight, and now our mind.
The earth, like our body, may groan,
As it awaits a fuller, freer, brighter day.
One red strand of wool, caught on a twig,
Of Easter speaks, and new hope in May.

--First version dedicated to Mark Noll,
long-time friend, scholar,
poet, teacher, nurturer of all-comers,
and esteemed former colleague,
-- JW, August 14, 2010.

Flickr's Jacob Schere's "Flower Satellite Wall"

2010-10-24T22:49:00.001-05:00

Flower Satellite Wall, originally uploaded by jacob schere [ here and there, mostly there ].

Thirty-Three to One.

Thirty-three little blue faces turn
To catch the rays of the unseen sun.
One grey dish it's face too does turn
Towards unseen beams, airwaves
Bearing from afar sights and sounds
That in turn make our heads turn.
And your head, your eyes, which way
Will you turn, and what will you absorb?

--JW, for Jacob Schere, October 24, 2010.

Flickr's Donald Verry's "Dawn"

2010-10-09T00:06:00.001-05:00

dawn, originally uploaded by donvucl.

"The Promise of Dawn"

Wide and nuanced tonal range, black to white,
Modulated with subtle silken transitions, by shapes
Speaking of crops, trees, houses, and hillsides,
Subdued under a soft dawn mist,
For this viewer, this Friday, of this week,
No further clarity desired. Softly soothing,
With such finely modulated, downy forms
To caress my strained eyes and weary mind,
I can go now to rest, in peace, a mediated
Normandy dawn, like a soft blanket,
Enveloping my weary soul,
A solace to be welcomed
Like a night of peaceful sleep,
Promising a tranquil dawn.

-JW, for Donald Verry, with appreciation,
Oct 8. 2010.

Flickr's Heniusia's "A break of light"

2010-08-16T10:36:00.004-05:00

A break of light ., originally uploaded by Heniusia.

"His and Hers"

Two boats - his and hers -
Waiting patiently, riding anchor,
Hoping soon to show their stuff.
Not made to sit and chafe
Against the waves,
Tethered to the seabed.

Come, set my sails, they cry,
Take me into the wind,
Ride the waves in me,
And perhaps we shall
Meet again, invigorated
In some quiet cove.

--JW, for Heni, August 16, 2010.

Flickr's John Walford's "Salvador Mundi Still Life Banner, 2010"

2010-08-14T23:20:00.002-05:00

Salvador Mundi Still Life Banner, 2010, originally uploaded by johnwalford.

This time, I felt the urge to write a few lines on one of my own pieces, my "Salvador Mundi Still Life," made today:

"Little Bits of This and That"

My grandfather was a hoarder
Of little pieces of string,
Not much good for anything -
And so labeled. My father
Was his father's son, and hence
One day this I found: A row of
Dud light-bulbs, carefully labeled:
"Dud globes." One might ask why?

I am my father's son, ask you why?
For I, too, cannot part with things.
When flowers and leaves their
Time have served, beauty given,
Still then I cannot let them go.
Squirrels drop empty walnut shells;
An acorn of two, they go un-foraged,
And so find their way to my office shelf.

There they sit, with leaves and flowers,
Stiffening with age, fragile as can be.
Why do they have to perish? My eye
They yet delight, and now my mind.
The earth, like my body, may groan,
As it awaits a fuller, freer, brighter day.
One red strand of wool, caught on a twig,
Of Easter speaks, and new hope in May.

----Dedicated to Mark Noll,
long-time friend, scholar,
poet, teacher, nurturer of all-comers,
and esteemed former colleague,
-- JW, August 14, 2010.

Flickr's Walford's "Rauschenberg ponders anew the Triumph of Duchamp over Dali, 2010"

2010-08-10T00:00:00.002-05:00

Rauschenberg ponders anew the Triumph of Duchamp over Dali, 2010, originally uploaded by johnwalford.

Contemporary American Art

Whatever happened to the world of visual art?
Once familiar, we knew what art was – or thought we did.
People went to the museum, expecting to find,
Fine statuary, pristine paintings, and intimate prints,
Leading the eye through beauty, truth, and goodness.
Oh! My goodness! What have we there, and why is it here?
Apollo, long since consigned to storage, and the Virgin Mary,
Shows up now, caked in elephant dung. The Crucifixion
Dropped in a tank filled with three gallons of urine – and
I am supposed to introduce students to this weird world?!

Better read up on all the latest trends, for students don’t want
To learn art from some fuddy-duddy, European, chauvinist pig.
One Erica Doss has put it well together, in a fast-moving text
On twentieth-century, American art – Oh! Forget the Europeans!
Cracking it open, I slowly make my way through chapters on a
“Gilded Age,” Early Modernism, Avant-Garde experimentation,
Inter-war years, art and the New Deal, and the grand triumph
Of Abstract Expressionism. New York outshines Paris, and
After war, all the money and the glitter floats to these shores.
Triumph of the Americans! But built on European foundations.

All seemed to be plain sailing, in the moneyed, bourgeois ‘fifties,
But then comes the ‘sixties, riots, Vietnam, and Civil Rights;
Clement Greenberg keeps it esoteric, in a formalist vein,
But the young hippies, disenfranchised, are quick to lash back.
They wont serve the moneyed class, nor be cowed by Clement’s rule,
But break out as Dadists, Pop artists, and then go Conceptual.
Oh my! What a radical transition from perception to conception,
And now the art world will no longer be quite the same.
Doss tells me to hang up my art eyes, for I wont be needing them,
Instead read from political- and social science all you need to know.

Feminists and Blacks climb onto their soap boxes, quickly followed
By every stripe of oppressed minorities: Lesbians, gays, bisexuals,
Transgendered, Chicanos, Asians, American Indians, and more!
Each has smoldering, legitimate grudges, feel pushed into corners,
Or swept under the rug. Now the full force of their venom surges forth,
Directed, with self-righteous anger, against the cringing WASP elite.
Through the eighties and nineties “culture wars” consume the arts,
And museums become battle-grounds for the politically-correct.
Now why am I preparing art students to engage the visual arts,
When art--so politically-engaged—offers little lure to the eye.

I come now to this book’s final chapter: Contemporary Art.
I sharpen my pencil, slurp down some tea, and in I dive.
Woops! Was that water my head hit, or rocky shoals?
I surface, head aching, and gasping for breath. Lets take
A sampler, lest oil-field pollution has dirtied these waters too.
First scanning the illustrations, it’s all ideas they illustrate,
Word-patterns, not images, jump out at my shocked senses:
Difference, marginalization, hybridity, identity politics, ethnicity,
Talk of negotiating race, gender, and sexuality – all possible forms,
Without one trace of texture, line, rhythm, color, or form.

Self-identity, cultural-identity, national-identity are all identified,
Along with questions of America as ‘melting pot’ or ‘tossed salad.’
Museums are called to task for their covert operations, designed
To preserve the prejudices of privileged, white males, while banishing
All others to the ghettos of invisibility. See here the white man’s plot,
Colonialist, Imperialist, acting with cultural blinders, all awhile
Believing that culture rests in the guise of Apollo and the Virgin.
Perhaps in ‘Black History Month’ they will throw a bone to the outcast,
After all, it can only help them raise funds from some other source.
Post-structural, and conceptual, it’s only PC to now give others a turn.

Abjection and the body is now all the mode: the body abject,
Fragmented, lacerated, excreting, or flayed, by one cast in soap and
Chocolate, to be licked and bitten, chewed up, and spat out; another
Offering menstrual fluids, semen, and stained bed-sheets, all as a way
Of calling attention to aspects of human physicality, vulnerability, and
Repression – to say nothing of battles against essentialism, and
Exclusion, for its time for the museumgoer to face suppressed reality:
Not all like their sex with those of different gender, and none agree
What it means to be a woman or a man, or something in between.
Seems many artists find themselves hybrid of one kind or another.

Flipping through the pages, my eyes keep on seeing such phrases:
The body, gendered identity, him in high heels, naked, disaffection;
AIDS, controversy, cultural malaise, raw and aggressive, salvaging
The flotsam and jetsam of American culture. Syncretic identity,
Difference, injustice; the ‘prejudices of art materials,’ Net art,
Piccaninnies, ‘coon art,’ Jim Crow laws, black degradation – all
To be wrung out in the spaces of the Whitney Biennials, and, if
Fortune smiles, in the American pavilion at the Venice Biennial.
Art, it seems, has always been wrapped up in cultural ideology,
But it once used to be a visual art, where eye trumped concept.

E. John Walford August 9, 2010

Flickr's dou_ble_you's "what is life? what is love? what are we here for?"

2010-07-29T21:53:00.002-05:00

what is life? what is love? what are we here for?, originally uploaded by dou_ble_you.

Hear - Know - Love - Here

In a numb, melancholy moment,
Mind chilled by a sixth sense
Of the reaper's sharpened scythe,
Little left over to think or say:

"TULP" - A tulip"

Two white ovals:
Eskimo footprints,
Eggs, balls, brights,
Car headlights,
With saltimbanques
Caught in the grill.
Ushered to their
Destiny, by one
Too loose to love,
Or play croquet.
--JW for UU, moved by
your message,
July 29, 2010.

Jon Guido Bertelli's "Portrait of 100-year-old Mexican revolutionary"

2010-07-24T18:13:00.003-05:00

Portrait of 100-year-old Mexican revolutionary, by Jon Guido Bertelli, originally uploaded by dou_ble_you.

This remarkable portrait, by Jon Guido Bertelli, of a 100-year-old Mexican revolutionary, posted to Flickr by dou_ble_you, who there refers to the story behind it, see: http://www.foto8.com/new/online/photo-stories/1200-zapatistas , provides so much food for reflection.

Here are the beginnings of mine:

These are a people cut from another cloth,
Forged by an endurance, few of us know,
Sustained by a vision, few of us grasp -
A testament to courage, few can match.

Who once sat in the rocking chair?
What plans were concocted? What happened?
What of the objects piled on the table? - Besides,
What did a portrait on a rough wall inspire?

JW, July 24, 2010, with thanks to dou_ble_you for posting this remarkable photograph.

Flickr's Lawrence OP / Brother Lawrence Lew 's "Adoremus in æternum"

2010-07-24T17:18:00.008-05:00

Adoremus in æternum, originally uploaded by Lawrence OP.

"Illuminated Shadows"

Shadowed profiles,
Imago Dei,
Illuminated by
Light and incense,
Facing their Lord.

What more to say?
Still, calm, devout,
Holding a vision of life
Most cannot grasp-
For Faith intangible.

To Brother Lawrence, O.P., with best wishes, as you now serve the Diaconate, John Walford, July 24, 2010.

Flickr's LawrenceOP / Brother Lawrence Lew's "Somerset Beauty"

2010-07-24T11:41:00.003-05:00

Somerset Beauty, originally uploaded by Lawrence OP.

"Vessels of Illumination"

Somerset cider in a cheap pub glass,
Set on a disposable beer mat,
On a rustic table, where woodworm
Have long since had their fill - and left.

Much like us! Hands, eyes, tongue, and feet,
Attached to a disposable corpus,
In a soiled city, where dogs, cats, and rats
have long since had their fill - and left.

Yet let one added element break through:
Lux divina! Effervescent bubbles catch its
Glowing rays, and radiate, spreading joy
Yet further, light from the rim of a plain vessel.

--JW, for Brother Lawrence Lew, of Blackfriars Priory, Oxford,
and originally Kuala Lumpur, on the occasion of
his ordination to the diaconate, July 24, 2010.

Flickr's "donvuci"/ Donald Verry's "bus reflection, rainy morning"

2010-07-23T11:02:00.001-05:00

bus reflection, rainy morning, originally uploaded by donvucl.

"Two Hands, One Ambiguous Space"

Would that I could explain why!
But this moves me to want to cry.
Perhaps it is those anonymous hands
Linked, yet separate, hovering
Over a threshold between
Sidewalk and street,
Somewhere above the gutter.
- like us all, straddling worlds
That seem close, yet are but
Illusions of proximity, carried
Through time and space,
On a cyber wave, none can touch.

--JW, for donvucl/ Donald Verry, July 23, 2010, in recognition of your astute photographic eye, and the masterful, visual interpretation that you bring to our shared human environment.

Flickr's "half past eight" (Steve)'s Untitled City Strollers, 2010

2010-07-21T09:30:00.008-05:00

http://www.flickr.com/photos/8962959@N02/4470180500/
originally uploaded by half past eight.

"Balancing Complimentary Elements "

When a person has the eye,
Well trained to discern,
The patience to observe,
And wait their time - What happens!?
What seen? Who wants to capture it?

A couple stroll into the field of vision,
As well as into the reflected field.
Shapes line up, point and balance,
Light sharpens and suffuses,
Color reaches its fitting pitch.

Smooth, checkered, reflected,
Set on dynamic diagonals,
Paving stones, sheets of glass,
Perforated curtain walls,
Floating masses, techo wonders.

The organic, played off the geometric,
And Steve is there, at half past eight.

- JW, for Steve/half past eight, July 21, 2010.

Flickr's twisty331 (Jacob Schere's) "Five Windows Two Pipes"

2010-07-17T23:27:00.002-05:00

Five Windows Two Pipes, originally uploaded by twisty331.

"Five Windows, Two Pipes, and a Vent"

One, well-painted, beige wall,
Seven outlets, yet no ingress,
Testimonies to hidden interiors,
Whose secrets remain unknown.

Forever veiled behind this wall,
Its windows, barred, screened,
One strangely whitened - Why?
Two banded chocolate brown.

You can wash upstairs, but maybe
Must go down for bowel relief.
Two pipes tell us so. The only
Way--in or out--the phone line.

Who painted those window bands
So neatly? What passes down that
Phone line? The words of lovers?
Or calls of one who likes grasses?

--JW, another to honor the chaste compositions of twisty331 (Jacob Schere),
July 17, 2010.

Flickr's roig61's "From Yavapai Point , South Rim. Grand Canyon National Park"

2010-07-17T23:01:00.002-05:00

From Yavapai Point , South Rim. Grand Canyon National Park, originally uploaded by roig61.

"The View from the Top"

There are moments when we feel on top of the world;
There are rare times when we are on top of the world.
Other times we shrink into the deepest shadows - but,
At such times, we need to remember the view from the top.

---JW, for roig61, July 17, 2010

Flickr's twisty331 (Jacob Schere's) "Window Squared Garden Door"

2010-07-08T23:28:00.012-05:00

Window Squared Garden Door, originally uploaded by twisty331.

"The Tussle between Nature & Culture"

What man makes is straight and sheer,
Submits to measure, 3-3-1, lines full clear.
Manu-facture now means machines,
That press, and cut - it's all so Schere.

A Creator-God does differently:
All lines have curve, none quite the same,
Species more than man can name,
In orange, purple, blue, and red.

Held up on stems, all twisty, bend;
Throw out sun-panels to catch
The rays and rains send down. -
But time and frost, He too does send.

From birth to grave, there is this dance,
Like plants that twine around man's struts.
Interdependent, they lunge and lance,
As Jacob, with the angel, bends and butts.

--John Walford, for Jacob Schere/twisty331, July 8, 2010,
a salute for your scrupulous eye.

John Walford, Nocturne - Geisha in her Garden, 2010

2010-06-21T14:10:00.005-05:00

Nocturne - Geisha in her Garden, 2010, originally uploaded by johnwalford.

"At the Sign of the Pineapple"

There, in the shadows of the peach blossom,
We had agreed to meet. Our secret garden,
So well hid, none shall find us there. But here
We find each other, can ourselves unburden.

There is this scented bower, still and quiet,
But for the soft humming of the bees, gathering
Nectar from the sweet blooms. Oft a bird will visit,
Sing for us, among the branches, above our heads.

Water trickles from pool to pool, its path meandering,
Like our evenings, slowly slinking round the rocks.
There some water lilies, a leaping frog, willows
Drooping low over the waters, whence they drink.

With anticipation, feasting my senses, I wait for her.
She, tender as a nightingale, porcelain skin, eyes
Like two moons, framed by dark, flowing tresses.
Then, onto the bridge she steps, lantern in hand.

- For my Maria, more loving than any woman known to me,
whose company is warm, and tender, like a secret garden,
scented with cherry blossoms, June 21st, 2010.

Flickr's Hurith's "Nothing of Nothing Remains"

2010-06-18T10:34:00.001-05:00

Nothing of Nothing Remains, originally uploaded by Hurith.

"And yet......"

"Nothing, of nothing, remains,"
Writes, translates, speaks forth
Fernando Pessoa / Ricardo Reis.
Medieval fortress, long preserved,
Tombstones, raised against time,
A brave striving, to hold off oblivion.

"Postponed corpses that procreate,"
Thereafter but to pad earth once trod.
If but that, why bear the yearly hassles?
Why not terminate, less years, less tears?
Ah! But hope for resurrection, we do dare
To believe, casts all sorrow aside, endures.
--JW, for Hurith, June 18, 2010.

Flickr's Lensk's "There is something haunting in the light of the moon; it has all the dispassionateness of a disembodied soul, and something of its inconceivable mystery." ~Joseph Conrad

2010-06-15T21:56:00.002-05:00

There is something haunting in the light of the moon; it has all the dispassionateness of a disembodied soul, and something of its inconceivable mystery. ~Joseph Conrad, originally uploaded by Lensk.

"Shrouded in Dim Moonlight"

Why stands this woman here at night?
Alone, beside this isolated shed. Not
Fully abandoned, for repairs were made -
Yet never painted! She, lady of the night,
Drawn by the florid meadows, she could
Have come by day, but why at night?

Police report: She was never seen again.
Who saw her last, under that shrouded moon?
Was it he, who had made the rendez-vous?
He, whom she had met earlier in the bar,
Close to the gates of Magdalene College,
A camera slung over his right shoulder.

(I don't know about Joseph Conrad's take on moonlight,
but, so shrouded here, this is what it feels like to me.
--JW, for Paulo, June 15, 2010.

Flickr's Heniusia's "Memory and desire..."

2010-06-15T10:30:00.001-05:00

Memory and desire..., originally uploaded by Heniusia.

"Loss"

One empty chair - not two;
Nothing on the table,
Where once we shared.
Seen now through a screen
Of nature's tears - leaving
Memories, and dulled desire.
--JW, for Heni, June 15, 2010.