“Baby, I Love Your Way” is a song written and performed by English singer Peter Frampton. It was released in September 1975 and was first featured on Frampton’s 1975 album, Frampton. The song segues from the previous track “Nassau”. A live version of the song was later released on his 1976 multi-platinum album Frampton Comes […]
Did the people of Vietnam use lanterns of stone? Did they hold ceremonies to reverence the opening of buds? Were they inclined to quiet laughter? Did they use bone and ivory, jade and silver, for ornament? Had they an epic poem? Did they distinguish between speech and singing? Sir, their light hearts turned to stone. It is not remembered whether in gardens stone gardens illumined pleasant ways. Perhaps they gathered once to delight in blossom, but after their children were killed there were no more buds. Sir, laughter is bitter to the burned mouth. A dream ago, perhaps. Ornament is for joy. All the bones were charred. it is not remembered. Remember, most were peasants; their life was in rice and bamboo. When peaceful clouds were reflected in the paddies and the water buffalo stepped surely along terraces, maybe fathers told their sons old tales. When bombs smashed those mirrors there was time only to scream. There is an echo yet of their speech which was like a song. It was reported their singing resembled the flight of moths in moonlight. Who can say? It is silent now. ~ What Were They Like? –
August 1953: Portrait of Abstract Expressionist artist Lee Krasner (1908 – 1984), wearing eyeglasses and seated next to a heater at her home in East Hampton, New York. (Photo by Tony Vaccaro/Hulton Archive/Getty Images)
In this excerpt from the book More than a Muse, which highlights creative women who have been overshadowed by their more famous spouses, see how the artist Lee Krasner worked her way up to the apex of New York’s art scene, only to often find herself reduced to the role of Jackson Pollock’s wife.
Went away that day, a while ago as I’m not sure in time, Was I lost or did I just seem lost inside, hiding from what? At this point not sure of what I’m trying to say, my thoughts, I was sent here to join in on something that should not be real. It takes a part of you away, destroys deep inside, that’s where I hide, I wasn’t supposed to come home, I feel guilty and all alone. Why was I sent away, they did not come back with me that terrible day, I should be with them by their sides, I can cry but why am I here alive? I wasn’t supposed to come home, I am alive! they all died. Keith Garrett
I am a landscape,” he said, “a landscape and a person walking in that landscape. There are daunting cliffs there, and plains glad in their way of brown monotony. But especially there are sinkholes, places of sudden terror, of small circumference and malevolent depths.” “I know,” she said. “When I set forth to walk in myself, as it might be on a fine afternoon, forgetting, sooner or later I come to where sedge and clumps of white flowers, rue perhaps, mark the bogland, and I know there are quagmires there that can pull you down, and sink you in bubbling mud.” “We had an old dog,” he told her, “when I was a boy, a good dog, friendly. But there was an injured spot on his head, if you happened just to touch it he’d jump up yelping and bite you. He bit a young child, they had to take him to the vet’s and destroy him.” “No one knows where it is,” she said, “and even by accident no one touches it: It’s inside my landscape, and only I, making my way preoccupied through my life, crossing my hills, sleeping on green moss of my own woods, I myself without warning touch it, and leap up at myself–” “–or flinch back just in time.” “Yes, we learn that It’s not terror, it’s pain we’re talking about: those places in us, like your dog’s bruised head, that are bruised forever, that time never assuages, never.” ~ Zeroing In
Intricate and untraceable weaving and interweaving, dark strand with light: designed, beyond all spiderly contrivance, to link, not to entrap: elation, grief, joy, contrition, entwined; shaking, changing, forever forming, transforming: