The visual capture and coupling of the power of voice by presenting combined magic lantern slides captured on a digital camera. Most are one color slide and one black and white slide projected using a Bausch & Lomb Balopticon to add motion. Hopefully Megan Watts Hughes, Akira Kurosawa, Joseph Boggs Beale, William Blake and I have met in some alternate universe and created something, anything...
Saturday, April 9, 2022
magician's eidophone lantern
dragonfly in amber
a boy needs a father
a man needs a son
I am neither and in need of none
she laughs a lot
I light her cigarette
she smokes, I do not
we whisper when we speak
if we speak at all
the watchers hide
behind mosaic eyes
I am tired
it is the war I know
this is not Eden
and there are no apples
a Buddhist monk
sitting in defensive posture
a lotus flower
douses himself in gasoline
burns a hole in my mind
my heart drowning in tide pools
my soul dries in low tide
we are all child soldiers
saving the world from more wars
a yellowish-brown sheen
just below the surface
wings shimmer in the light
I still search
for a temple to call home
grandma's hands
My grandmother added the framing, it was in her room as a child in Lompoc, California, probably from the 1930's on. I wonder where it came from and who the maker was.
Wednesday, March 23, 2022
Friday, January 21, 2022
share
...collage of imagery as I work through projection as Cliche Verre...
Saturday, March 13, 2021
Frankie
New work in process, hoping to project lighted images from a modified Frankenstein Magic Lantern, or two. I am thinking one over the other and then a super eight projector on top.
Soon Update
soon
soon our children will be grandparents
some of us will be forgotten
our bodies will turn into trees
history will ride the breeze
memories will whistle in the wind
wrestle through the leaves
leaves will fall to the grass
the past will grow on the floors of dense woods
our children will follow our paths
some pass through apple orchards
some tortured paths will lead back to tortured paths
soon I will come to pass
through the spyglass
kaleidoscope stained glass dances in the contrast of the invisible sun
it seems this day has barely begun
I already breathe in the afternoon
my lungs fill like balloons
a purple one
a blue one
tomorrow seems close at hand
yesterday seems years away
eternity not far away
I will soon be old with cane
cold with pain
behold the strain in my spoken choice
the dust in my old broken voice
rust in my veins
rusty chains restrain the balloons in my chest
my breath dressed in Sunday’s best
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