I Shall Seek My Own Worth....🖍🌿🏹

In the last two months of 2017, my strength in thoughts and ideas became incurable.
Time was giving me momentum therefore I raised my tank of memory to its highest point.
A certain fragment of time filled my every waking hour with such excitement and joy.

It was cruelty and despair which followed.
Life simply jarred like I was intombed.

Onwards I thought otherwise I just will stop altogether.
So taken my broken thread and mended where I could because
some threads were perfectly placed.

I long to be free of opinions....I do it for myself. My ODE.🌿

To like something and to talk about that like.......is discerningly private.

                                                                 P O E T R Y......of like.

                                                             
       Inherent from my ancestry.... shape and silhouette become my everyday observation.

                                                                       I Like.

   

She lived by what society through at her... as she aged her world became more and more eccentric.
                                                                           I Like.

 

Artisans create adornments for chances.... which by wearing will only signify undeniable importance.
                                                                            I Like.

     

Simple hand-made wooden Dachas houses where the owner grows the flowers and arranges and records in watercolour paintings......Russians are great nature lovers as am I.
                                                                           I Like.

I like many ideals of beauty.....from my family I inherited the rituals of process and placement. How watching my father make something out of discarded wood... only to have all who saw his creation want the same thing for themselves.
The gentle art of whitening linen in cold salted water through several stages of soaking.
Quiet crackling of wood burning under an old copper whilst persimmons fall from the laden back fence... in winter.

In a plane I like that moment before take off... seconds before the throttling sound of angular ascension into the sky.

Landing somewhere you've never been before....hearing the people in a desert land yell out their wares.
Smiling at majestic pyramids as you stand on the land of The Valley of The Kings.
                                                                         I Like.

                                                                          I Like.
I like to look at Le Eiffel Tour from many different view points in Paris. To walk the stairs to the very top and to hear your own footsteps....hold the rail and pace yourself...glance across at all of the city in front of you....stop and take in the ground area from above....always wear your most glamorous clothes and heal sounding shoes will echo and remind you that you are there....amidst the tower your final steps to the top......and it sways in the parisienne sky....with utter joy I adore the moment for all eternity.....I like a hundred moments all in a second.......a leisurely descent and evocative rumblings of motor vehicles and life and the heady smell of petroleum.


I  L I K E ........all my decisions in my observational world they belong to me... for to like is to see.


                                                                      P O E T R Y

                                                                   La Boudoir Dada.





                     

Napoleon's Eye.: What maketh the Artist stay forth...."Dada's Artis...

Napoleon's Eye.: What maketh the Artist stay forth...."Dada's Artis...: Walking rather slowly down a lane in Rushall......yesterday, I came across a piece of an old mantel clock....someone had thrown it ...

What maketh the Artist stay forth...."Dada's Artistic Artillery"

Walking rather slowly down a lane in Rushall......yesterday, I came across a piece of an old mantel clock....someone had thrown it out as hard rubbish. I was amazed to find the mechanisms still dinking with sounds. As I held it in my hands and moved it back and forth......the chime of it instantly took me back to my childhood and my Grandfather's work shed in the country.

Leonard had boxes of parts from all kinds of things.....clocks

, cars, transistors, cutlery, electrical devices and many many screws and bolts.

Grandfather gladly went into his shed most mornings filled with discarded remnants of the past. He was an Artist of sorts. Combinations of rubber stamps and half full bottles of ink. watercolour tubes and old printers blocks.....detritus of the publishing trade.

I was fascinated. The shed represented a world I loved to be in.

He was a WW2 Veteran .....drove a water tank through Syria across deserts and blown up terrain.

I loved my Pa so much.....he showed me how to operate my first silver watch....."This is the mechanism"....he said.

He was an individual investigator.

Elaborated on....diversified Dada artillery.......for my eyes only.

All along my art school path....I was told endless stories about postwar Cologne.

What was it all about really....I thought. A new idiom. The Dadaists drew from the material world and psychological terrain. They would articulate their radically altered sense of self and society.

My Pa was a backyard Dadaist ...so to speak...always weaving the pictorial with his unique productive synergy.......I was there and very young....but somehow his shed and the memory of his bits and pieces ..... a strong hold is inherent.

My work is filled with a semblance of memory and desire to create my own eclectic placements and installations......contradictoriness of my own systems....I enjoy the absurd and the unconscious. When he passed away I received two very memorable pieces belonging to him......a silk dressing gown and a pair of metal cuff links.......so light was the metal you could have easily swallowed them whole.

I saw him wear them a couple of times and as a child was aware of his well groomed presence each and every morning.......they were his fathers.....my great grandfathers.....now placed in England whence they came from.........for safe keeping.

Cosmetic device.

I am a DAdA related collage artist.

Madam Dada belongs to the exterior world.

" Dedication....... to all we see and see..... is but a dream "

Dedicated to the many poets and audacious rambling Surrealist Artists......................... past and present.

I see the sea.

I look at books.

I observe the absurd.

I walk the stork.

I trust in must.

I chase the waste.

I tremble to assemble.

I search and lurch.

I applaud such reward.

I smell the hell.

I wander the yonder.

I skate my fate.

I worship Bip.

I create the ornate.

I clench to French.

I touch my crutch.

I smother my other.

I dance the trance.

I shelter and swelter.

I fall in awe.

I operate to moderate.

I cry to die.

I crumple the disgruntled.

I huddle and cuddle.

I flick the switch.

I object to abject.

I shiver my timbers.

I shy away why.

I fear the fear.

I resurrect the dissected.

I agree with algae.

I devote the bespoke.

I sample the ample.

I treasure the pleasure.

I speak the bleak.

I frequent the elegante.

I hand the man.

I forget my regret.

I flower the sour.

I follow the swallow.

I varnish and tarnish.

I return to sender.

I shudder in the larder.

I remember to surrender.

I ride the tide.

I toss my loss.

I felt the pelt.

I stare that bear.

I kiss and miss.

DaDA at La bOUdOIR DAdA.

avec Madam Dada.

"The Silent Looker."........... does not utter anything.

The soul still yesterday wept is quiet- its exile suspended

a country without art only nature

Memory magnolia pure so far off

I am blind

and made from a bit of earth

But your gaze never leaves me

and your angel keeps me.

In the little Laurent Prache Square beside the church of Saint- Germain-des-Pres, there stands a monument to the poet Guillaume Apollinaire. 

The Recluse.

In the secret of myself to my secret self

living you have me live

In this room I've lived out madness fear chagrin

the simple walking of a summers day

Exile is vast but it's summer, silence

in the sunlight a place of peace where the soul

invents only joy a child on the road to his home.

Fraction.

Far off is less distant than the ground, the biting

bed of air,

where you stop, like a harrow

on the reddening earth.

I remain above the grass, in the blinding air.

The ground erupts ceaselessly towards us,

without my moving off

from the day.

Nothing.

today,

is trampled.

I don't subsist in the naked air.

On the road growing.

Madam Leonor Fini.

Melwitz Folino

Leonor Fini.

I rested in the arms of my arms

I slept no longer

It was summer winter day

An eternal shiver of thoughts

Fear love Fear love

Close the window open the window.

Identity.

La Boudoir Dada.

DA da DA.

AmOre.