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Monday, February 16, 2015

Gender Dance




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to enlarge





 

 



  photo-montage by aleXander hirka ~ text by T. Remington

From above, miles above, the dance is a red froth that heaves and turns in on itself in frantic tidal rhythms, defying the very terms of its existence. But come in closer. No, just a bit closer. Are you seeing it yet? Don’t be like that; get right down into it and play your part.  Surely you know your steps. Your role. Wait. Not like that; you can’t move that way. And what were you thinking wearing that? We all have our important and well defined steps in this dance and anyone who deviates risks wrecking millennia of carefully designed work.

You want to confuse everyone? You go out of step and the next thing you know, everyone is stumbling into each other, no one knows what their part is anymore and, worse, no one knows who they’re supposed to be dancing with! Stop that. Get right over here and fall into step. The swans will show you how it’s done. Even the toreador in the ring has the exquisite sense of precision and grace that is required to bring his part of the dance to a satisfactory consummation.

See? You were built for this; your very musculature is imbued with the vibrations that will summon your partner, the right partner, the one and only one who can respond to your summons.

Wait. What are you doing? You cannot move that way! Put away those peacock feathers and behave, dammit. Oh what a disaster you are. No one can say that I didn’t try. Go. Go on and prance around like a ninny; see if anyone will want to dance with you. I wash my hands of you!


     ______________________________


Sunday, February 8, 2015

Dragonfly Pentacost

 
 


click on image
to enlarge






 


  photo-montage by aleXander hirka ~ text by T. Remington

I dart. We dart and we all peer down at you. Fleshy, grinning and, it would appear, completely ignorant of our adornments; a crowd of happy imbeciles. Poor, earthbound, heavy and stuck. We hover above and offer gifts. Horned, both you and we, but where we are winged, you are legged. Where we soar and shimmer and do gravity one better, you are pinned tight. We feel so sorry for you and would offer more than fine head-dressings, but really what would you do with wings?  You strut and shine and show off the horns you all sport now, poking and curving and meaning nothing. Meanwhile we dart above you and you cannot hear our laughter. You wave and shout, bowing and dipping finely ornate heads that could count for a beginning, a first sprouting of something magical.  But really we cannot in good conscience
 waste the brilliance of free flight on the likes of you.  You would never, not in your wildest dreams, be ready to be birthed to the new day of rising into the wind.

     ______________________________

Sunday, February 1, 2015

Urban 3.0

During the last few months Tammy was hired to provide narrative descriptions of the water colors of New York artist Emily Stedman and to be part of her current exhibition at NOHO / M55 Gallery in Chelsea running from January 27th to February 14th, 2015.

For the month of February, once a week, we will feature a new photo-montage by AleXander, with Tammy applying her wordsmithery to it.

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AleXander is working on a project of images for an urban planning white paper being put together in China, and Tammy extrapolated on one of the pieces.


"I look across from my perch high above as the spectators gather across the bridge, all of us peering down to river traffic and a dizzy whirl of change. Before the last barge disappears around the bend, a bewildering array of bristling new construction leaps up on all sides. The noise, the frantic momentum, the determined push of the new that relentlessly shoves all out of its way. Walls of windows claim former horizon lines and even the stretching bridges are hemmed in, confined to small roles that defy old devils and convey the new gods to the other side as they hurry to very important appointments. Propulsion fueled by serial explosions of growth as progress holds sway and strikes down anything in its path. The bravest of new days is fleeting and before you know it, another generation of wonder construction becomes demolition sites. Somewhere above there is a sky and it barely notices any of this."