Be sure to wash, then retune.
Before you work.
Be sure to wash, then retune.
Before you work.
I think that we visualize
a line, passing through
space because we place it there.
Line scribes a line, threading
between what is seen and experienced
what is known and unknown, but
the real question is this a
knotted line of imagining, this
seeing that we do, or is it
no thing — just a figment
of what we’d like to
envision, staking our
feet in the ground, eyes
following where we
would like to go.
DIA | Beacon | NY
I’ve been looking at, collecting X.
Why, you might ask.
It’s one of those things that you uncover from your memory — something past and misted. But there.
The X is an ancient symbol — so old, its origin is forgotten. But what is it?
It is the crossing; it is the crossroads, it is the place in which paths merge, lines connect, mysteries emanate.
I can recall being in Bali, and there was a ceremony at the crossroads — for them, it’s a path of collision and danger; the leyak roost there, demons haunt these grounds. Make offerings, then the crossroads are appeased.Â
There is the symbolism of the cross in Christ — the ancient crucifix being an X.Â
I started with stones.Â
Then watching for others, seeing others, contemplating their magic, their mystery. It continues. So that by now, I’ve got hundreds of them. What to do — xplore: more.Â
This one, in light:Â
TSG | nyc
There’s been wild and raging storms, surging up the coast — gale winds, ripping rains. Then, silence.
I look out over the waters, and it’s still as ever, so quiet, it’s like there’s nothing there.
Beyond the sighting cairn, the triangular arrangement of stones, that seems to survive storm after storm, wind running after…
This morning, Kingfisher, spies…
I was working back east, around Princeton and elsewhere out there, and came to this new modeling for Puma.Â
I really like the floors, which seem like they are made of some kind of silvery slop, hardened. And there are other really strange materials as well — spongy stool coverings, triple thick plastics, cargo container for shipping the stores, that become POS, and the changing rooms; a new graphic language, then curious spreads to product — like PUMA | Ferrari.
I asked them about this:
We are not that kind of store — like Adidas or Nike, we support different kinds of athletes, like race car drivers and formula one, urban bikers, street soccer. They are assertively building out their own new sports and material culture.
And it’s possible then, for consumers to make this stride, their own story.
That’s what it’s about, right? Your brand is just that — personal, because you’ve made it your own.
tsg | queen anne
scented this, darling?
I’m loving this, more: Dzongkha, L’Artisan Parfumeur. Or Timbuktu.Â
Quiet, the silent twins, mingled.
They must be out wandering…
Wishing well, all hallows day.
tsg | princeton
I spent a couple of nights with my lover at the Gramercy Park Hotel, NYC, Schrager’s collaboration with Julian Schnabel — painter, filmmaker, now, interior designer.
I found the space intriguing. What was it — dark, deeply scented of burning firewood, and some other dense layers of fragrance beneath. But more?
The description might lend itself to something darkly dream like, nightmarish, even; a vision of hammered metals, gigantically scaled chandelier, eclectic heavy furnishings, and curios, mixed with seasoned cypress ceiling panels and long cut pillars ponderosa pine, graphically splashy wall treatments and detailed, customized carpeting.
But all, highly personalized and eccentric, to what I might take as a Schnabelian vision.
I liked it — given the wild interpretations and detailing of the selections and integrations of dense personality and experience. Discrete from Philippe Starck, who’s got his own take on the world, sleeker, less textured and more manufactured — in all of his hotel innovations for Schrager.
Rooms were dark and sexual.
This, on a windbound and raining weekend, alive in NYC.
Stoplights, burning red into the trees of Fall…
all grand — the senses of it…
Rather lonely here, noting the stacking of messages from me.
I’ll leave it at that, then.
Reach, if any needs allow, for aid; reach, if any calls are heard, to offer it.
I’ll practice what I preach.
wishing warmth, all >
Out there, a heron calls its rattling, croaking call, which reaches far back in time — a sound so distant in the symphony of the world that, perhaps, it recalls the auditory recoil of the time of the dinosaurs.
Water drips from the madrona, old gnarled curling branches, a spatter on fallen leaves. And the water below merely whispers — now, and again — I am here, listen for me. I call you, to remind you — I am here.
My flashlight, reaches into the trees, and — in the darkening — captures only the glimpse of the crimson brush curves of the vermillion bark; and beyond that, knowing the shimmering water lies beyond, lies beneath.
Mystery surrounds and abounds, those that wander in the night, listening. Seeing what cannot be seen. Even in the light, known, there are things to be sensed that are, perhaps, more often, passed by, in those that see casually, cast back their vision, on only what is close to their rim of vision. Selfish — seen.
Is not, then, our role to teach? Gentle, the gesture of the knowing brushstroke, story told…
And, in the time of our working together, sharing — there are those learnings. Patience in the moment, what is — is; what can be felt — found; what can be learned — gathered.
Wishing well, wishingwell: