Memoirous

Last week Donald Trump introduced a 2017 budget that de-funded the National Endowment for the Arts which assists individual artist but also grants monies to non-profits, arts training programs, public arts projects. He isn’t the first president to try and write the NEA and the National Endowment for the Humanities out of existence—that title would go to Ronald Reagan. I love how funding art becomes a political football, something to be booted back and forth. Of course Hitler loved art. In fact he fancied himself a painter. During his chancellorship he actively collected art, as did many in the Reich, much of it confiscated. The period before Hitler came to power in 1933 was known as Weimar. Weimar Germany was famous for an explosion in Modernistic expression—expressionism, Dada, cubism and impressionism. Artists such as Paul Klee, Wassily Kandinsky, Otto Dix, and Max Ernst  contributed to the avant-garde movement. Hitler had stated clearly in ‘Mein Kampf’ where his thoug

Here's the best way to fight: with art Stephen King Trolls Donald Trump's Wiretap Claim With Hair-Raising Horror Story Megan McCluskey Mar 06, 2017 After  President Donald Trump  took to Twitter Saturday to  accuse Barack Obama  of  wiretapping  Trump Tower during the 2016 election,  Stephen King  trolled POTUS by sharing his latest horror story. In a series of three tweets, the author penned a short thriller mocking the allegations, seeming to ridicule the fact that Trump provided  no evidence backing up his claims . "Not only did Obama tap Trump's phones, he stole the strawberry ice cream out of the mess locker," King wrote. "Obama tapped Trump's phones IN PERSON! Went in wearing a  Con Ed  coverall. Michelle stood guard while O spliced the lines. SAD!"  Follow Stephen King   ✔ @StephenKing Not only did Obama tap Trump's phones, he stole the strawberry ice cream out of

Clouds of Sils Maria Olivier Assayas, Director Movie Review This was a very theatrical weekend for me: Hamilton, several videos checked out of the library, and the Oscars (what happened???) In between I tried to recover. I read the playbill and wondered . . . about the role of the understudy. How does one suddenly transformed, step into, substitute one role for the other? The bi-polar ability to code-switch, assume a while new skin. Which brings me my review of the Clouds of Sils Maria , a fascinating, multi-layered meta film, a house of mirrors about roles, acting, and the skin we’re in. How do the old (older) navigate a changing world? How do the young (younger) step into what are assumed roles and play a new part? What is the tangled, transforming, even wispy foggy, territory in between? Nothing in this film was spelled out for the viewer=refreshing. We weren’t “told” who the villains were. All the characters were vulnerable, pushed to “act” even in the midst of s

Check out 2 new stories: Minola Review : 100 THINGS FOR WOMEN WRITERS TO CONSIDER Spelk Fiction : A Note in the Lobby “It has come to our attention that certain residents are not curbing their dog.”

Hippocampus Magazine and Press is requesting true stories inspired by the heyday of radio* for its forthcoming anthology, Air. We’re looking for behind-the-scene stories about small town radio stations. We’re seeking personal stories about die-hard radio fans. We want to hear from (current/former) jocks, from program directors, from engineers, from the sales team, from ancillary characters like record reps and concert promoters—tales from every corner of the radio station and from everyone radio ever reached. PAYING https://hippocampusmagazine.submittable.com/submit 

Love vs Power In a world of vitriol, compassion is protest In a world of contempt, respect is protest In a world of de-humanizing, empathy is protest In a world of despair, hope is protest In a world of chaos, grounding is protest In a world of panic, calm is protest This is the way that I protest. If you'd like, come join me. --Crystal Chan, author of   Bird You need to completely rethink your life.

My sister and I used to play hillbilly magic, a kind of facile slight-of-hand. Where nothing magical actually happened except what you chose to believe. It consisted of holding two fingers together and the other person “slicing” through them. Or making two interconnecting Os with fingers and trying to separate them. Pointless games, no doubt performed when entirely bored. Like sitting in a waiting room with nothing to read or in the back seat of the car on a long car trip. No matter what I did she always won. An invitation by Nancy to play hillbilly magic automatically stacked the deck against me. And, why did I play? I guess because I wanted to be with her, even if it meant playing stupid games. Sometimes she would throw in Three Stooges moves. Such as if I did manage to slice through her fingers she’d punch me in the arm. Again, if I knew it was coming why did I stand there? Maybe because I believed that someday it wouldn’t happen, that that was the trick. That I’d happ

If I travel far back in time I am able to observe dinosaurs. Sometime around age 5 I went with my parents in the car to a fiberglass dinosaur exhibit in a shopping center parking lot. They were huge—bigger than a kindergartner! —on flatbed trucks. I remember their automaton necks wagging, a flash of plastic teeth, the flip of a tail. I riddled my parents with questions: Are they still around? How long ago did they die out? Were they really this big? What did they eat? They were the most majestic thing I’d ever seen, and later, whenever passing that shopping center, I’d scan the parking lot for remnants of dinosaurs.

In my twenties there was an unspoken rule: at least once a month you had to either have a breakdown or run out of gas. There were variations, but it all added up to sometime around 2 a.m. being stuck somewhere and trying to figure out who to call—but first we’d have to find a pay phone. Somewhere in my collective memory I see a parking lot, a sea of tarmac with my little red/orange Volkswagen swimming in it. This was ten times better than that time beside the 4-lane highway, but still I was unfamiliar with this side of town. Plus, I might also have been a little woozy from lack of sleep. I turned the key and nothing, just click. Which meant I had left the lights on and would need a jump. I went through the Rollo-deck of my mind. That’s what’s now known as contacts on your Smart phone. I thought of Bob, he was always up for a midnight adventure. Even though Nicole was super busy, the smartest girl in the school, she’d throw on shoes and come looking for me. Wells might do it, u

Dad and I sat in the parked car waiting for my ride to come pick me up. Before on-line websites there used to be message boards where folks tacked up information. That’s where I found the phone number of a guy heading up to Chicago. I’d gone home to sort through the rest of my stuff as my parents had sold their house. It would be my last chance in the house where I grew up, and though I wanted to salvage a lot more momentos, I had to leave a lot behind. Since Dad had retired, they were moving to a resort community with a view to spending their golden years golfing. We waited in a Denny’s parking lot in awkward silence. It had not been a happy transition. For some reason I couldn’t understand: Mom and Dad were worried about me. I’d chosen to live in a commune. I didn’t want to join the rat race and live a suburban lifestyle of middleclass mediocrity. Not that anyone was promising me any of that. Basically I didn’t know how to go about getting a job after graduating college. So we s

We’d had another argument and so I went for a walk after dinner. It was dark, but darkness is only relative in the city. There is light everywhere. The atmosphere around the arc lamps sends diffused halos rippling out to the blurry edges. I walked along the shore of Lake Michigan and then through the bird sanctuary where everything was silent; from across the harbor came the muffled strum of auto traffic on the Drive. Popping out of the Magic Hedge and about to cross the parking lot, I spied a coyote silhouetted, the bristled hairs on his back standing up. He turned to look at me, the only two figures on an asphalt landscape. After a minute he galloped off and I continued circumnavigating the promenade before turning toward home.

I remember standing in a parking lot saying goodbye not knowing if I’d ever see my friends again. After college time and money were like chains squeezing me tighter and tighter. I had to work, and travel was unpredictable. I couldn’t rely on my car to get across town let alone across two states to come visit. If I even had the money for gas. We were all on the brink of change. No one knew where they’d be in a year. What once seemed forever was an illusion, even illusions seemed transitory. Quicksand was all around us. We held on tight as we hugged each other good bye. Years later when we reunited we were no longer the same people.

Working In Series What is a Series? Simply put, it is a group of pieces based on a common element or group of elements.   You can base a series on subject matter, a technique, a particular set of materials, a group of visual elements, or a compositional format.  A series can be created in an afternoon – as in a group of quick collage studies – or last a lifetime.  Many artists keep several series going throughout their careers. ·          Working in series allows you to explore ideas more thoroughly, give them some breathing room. ·          Working in series gives you the opportunity to try out different solutions to visual “problems”, and explore multiple possibilities. ·          Working in series gives your art practice focus and momentum.  Rather than face the blank canvas with too many possibilities to choose from, the parameters of your series create clarity of intention. ·          By considering the   series   the basic unit of art making, you lose the preciousnes

Night by Elie Wiesel Review Lately I’ve recalled reading the small memoir Night by Elie Wiesel. Something troubling in today’s current political scene brought it to mind. I believe I last read it when in high school, but the story has never let me go. If it happened then, it could happen now. The way evil creeps up and grips you by the throat. No one ever imagined it would happen. I remember in 2015 standing on the grassy bank of Lake Michigan laughing with a friend about the clumsy, cloddy candidate Trump. What a train wreck! Now here he is president of the United States, and no one’s laughing. That’s what struck me the most when re-reading Night , no one saw it coming. It began so incrementally. Civil rights nibbled away. Further and further restrictions. Moving back into the ghetto. Forced to quit school, hide. Back then they assured themselves that this won’t be forever, just as we tell ourselves that we can put up with anything for “four years.” As a fifteen ye