Eric Capron’s Circus of Dreams

Eric Capron is a self-taught artist. He discovers the arts of the circus and the world of the puppet.

Eric Capron. Artiste autodidacte au parcours singulier. Dès son plus jeune âge, la dyslexie le marginalise. Enfant solitaire, il quitte très tôt les bancs de l’école et l’univers familial. Commence une vie de saltimbanque, découvre les arts du cirque, le monde de la marionnette.

Artiste en perpétuelle mutation. Dorénavant un travail quotidien permanent de production d’œuvres en papier mâché : des corps mis en scène. Des corps non genrés, incolores, sans modèles, mais étonnamment présents à nos regards amis. Ils existent pour eux-mêmes, d’abord.

Les sculptures sensibles d’Eric Capron racontent l’âme humaine, la fragilité de nos destins. L’artiste revisite les mythes fondateurs, puisant ses références dans la mythologie, l’art sacré et profane, l’univers onirique, les grands textes de la littérature.

« J’ai le sentiment d’être l’instrument de quelque chose qui me dépasse, une sorte de miracle, une boite de Pandore qui s’est ouverte…» nous confie-t-il.

Suite for Monk, a Triadic Played by Heller Levinson 

MONK-LIKE

			like

lunge clump      canopy canister		fraught ganglia, chop
butterudder						back
								forward
								this way
							that
twist turn				vertiginate
		swallow     swelter
claim cluster clank crank		rustle roundabout
                           c     l     a     m
	bustle break bother broke brother
	bother bustle break brother broke
                   			bristle
								breathe
								    bombin-
ate		fables of late		bludgeon bark   bake
		   sleight slumber swell
	B Flat		line periphery-burst		stride
intervallic surge			sully sulk  skulk
																				 atti-T!ude
feud fidelity
                    ferm             en
                   		  ta		tion
			  
  	in-
 			  	stall

				un-
				install

FRIDAY THE 13TH

Mitchell Pluto inspired this Hinge to the Monk tune “Friday The 13th” Mitchell writes: One of my favorite tunes is Friday The 13th by Monk and Rollins, at first it takes the listener on a slant- a sort of drunk crab walk, and then the block chords, for me create a square spiral.

WOR studios 1953   thelonious Monk/Sonny Rollins
sloop-de-sloop whirl wind full intake reed fill throat splash slippery slant
peek-a-boo inebriate	peregrinate		in-
cubate 	square spiral boulder-roll stroll crab colossal 	 hi-hat crisp
chink snap crystalclarioncrystalline 	bosomy broth ivories wrought bath breadload beatitude	concuss allude	wedge hook link	sinkseepagelodge	
								laurel sling
								carrion fletch
				b e t r o t h 
	clump stump flummery block lump here
	come de Monk	scruff scamper liv-
ery lurch	paint a birch		fu-
rl fistful conflagrate agitate French horn ― fog-caster, frog-hopper ― conflate titillate aerate levitate brindle lop Bird-bop
							chordal congregation
							hymnal meditation
				scintilla aubergine
whisk brisk bask peculiar challenge the ruler
adumbrate gestate
spray a mandate
, man



EPISTROPHY FOR T. MONK

       ganglion frieze chop
splash melodic purl surge
/under
flirt slash the line tease conflate
the outer reaches skim borders
peripheries riff the mad notes cyclones
flush curling cuniculi mucid caves jettison spills
of color mutation migration never before
heard harmonic swoops triads
scribbled above bison head rage of
memory snarled rhythms stored in stone
circling and twirling a 
gathering of data raptorial fingers toolbox
of the soul aerial lift and poise
& strafe the keys
prey for salvation litanous chariots
a last chance passage
bump into the final
four bar essence is exhaustion
of complexity buck to the
ride cymbal 
bow to the bass

Heller Levinson is the originator of Hinge Theory.  His most recent books are Dialogics (Anvil Tongue Press, 2022), Lure, and jus’ sayn’ (Black Widow Press, 2022). His Query Caboodle and Shift Gristle are scheduled for a Spring 2023 release (also BWP). He lives in the Hudson Valley, NY.

written by ©Heller Levinson

The Paleozoic Clock by Enrique de Santiago

Before to be

Before discriminating the grey hours of the clear

She lived the only and always ufana clarity of my imaginary friend

Time evaporated his muscles and nerves

To leave only impressions on the ether

Featured Image: The clock that survived the paleozoic, acrylic and ink on Fabriano paper 250 gm. 21 x 28 cm. Enrique de Santiago

The dream of the sphinx

Bounded by the breath of time

Rush me to the shore

from the young chimera.

Aurea X-ray, acrylic and ink on Fabriano paper, 21 x 28 cm. Enrique de Santiago

SUM OF OPPORTUNITIES

“If the doors of perception were cleansed, everything would appear to men as it really is: infinite. “

William Blake

And I saw the impossible behind the possible

clinging to its subalternative limit that varies by century

because it responds to the movement of utopian tides

as I look into your eyes from the night glass

there everything was infinite in a tear lodged in your pupil

where she calculated the proper time

to go out into the light of tornadoes

and to the thick porcelain of desire.

Lithic Dreams of an Amazed Void, ink on 300gm Canson paper. 21 x 28 cm.
Enrique de Santiago

Perpendicular Imagination That Peeks Out

after the divine muscle

that bare your pelagic fate

to the one who lies at the feet of his limestone slab.

With every sun 666 mistakes arise

in the belly of the lunar word.

Appearance, ink and piece of paper, on 300 gm Canson paper. 21 x 28 cm. Enrique de Santiago

From the clouds held for centuries

of the air that snakes the knot violates sense

and every dark way that embraces the sound of the world

the maze light line emerges

The Weight of Astral Utopia, acrylic and ink on Fabriano paper 250 gm. 29 x 21 cm. Enrique de Santiago

STARS TOPOGRAPHY

Only from the heart can you touch the sky. (Rumi)

So many times announced about my bone marrow

Bear Minor reduces his trades

while the diligent memory of your laughter

still loathing the twilight

and you will know by the occasional spurs

that had not taken my hands away from that oniric praise

and neither from the damp condition that bounced from his promised halo.

written and Illustrated by ©Enrique De Santiago

Enrique De Santiago. Poet, Artist and Philosopher

Recipes for Horizons by Enrique De Santiago

BLENDED IN THE HOURS
From the place where the abrupt sound of the loica ventures

(1)
the evanescence of your future breath appears
among the vegetation that hides your name
and the blue and gray stones of the primal mystery
there I will drink from the mist that shouts the perpendicular miracle
the only reason at all
that moistens the vegetal belly of the beloved
and shines the incessant desire.
How long does the star take to announce your coming?
or there will be no signs in this already long life of chordates

(2)
while the empty horn waits for its winds
and the opaque flame of sleep leans into oblivion

(1) Signature and unpredictable bird before being (A) bird
in the light areas that are shaken by the wind
mythical and loving red that drew a smile on a child
to open the celestial fields of my pupil
that stirred my early neurotransmitters
before the new cycle (B)
(A) Before being
Before discriminating the gray hours from the clear ones
I inhabited the only and always proud clarity of my imaginary friend
(B) New cycle
My lymph is rocked by the wind
in a theater of new opportunities
those that favor the sweetness of the coots of sober stride
mating in the repetition of miracles
so that the aromas perpetuate my arcane name
and the wandering clouds welcome their polar persistence.
I had the option of ascending to lightning by the cosmic warp
where perhaps the root of the word would have questioned
in coming times of etheric colors
where time would have curved for your eyes
and I would raise your elusive silhouette that lies in the angle of a sunset
irretrievably withers the thaumaturgical vowel (B1)
as simple as a smile
or the collapse of a galaxy
since everything is corresponding
and apparent
with its prodigious lightness (B2)
Like a breath from the forest.

TRAVEL
I went down to the inside of your belly
caressing the rafters of your cosmic cloud
the one that received me with the aroma of the sacred bulbs.
There you were the clear love of wood
and the vegetal wisdom that embraces the ancient verb
when the wind ceases its journey on the shoulders
of the floral liturgy
How many skies inhabit your seed that furrows the seer’s eye?
Is there a niche of smoke that hides your salty voice?
Or simply the root of everything has its home in that mystery.

Each step collects behind you, the daffodils
that inevitably lose your mark
the one that wanders in the deep sands
that in the empire of shadows shelters you.
The messenger has a singular noise
I’ll feel it that dreadful day
I will know then that the epitaphs for the sepulcher arrive,
where nothing else needs to be done,
the metal swallows are an illusory replacement,
since the truths remained in the lock,
and blind to certainties,
I only rest for a few moments
to give me strength in the pilgrim sea,
the one who confuses the epistolary tides
and enjoys seemingly innocuous sacrifices.

I will kiss your lips according to the prophecy

while the breeze will speak the unfinished language

And you will see me with your green eyes

that are not green

are brown

But when you laugh they turn green

and you can draw a different morning

with an approximate solstice

with snakes in the window,

so my useless life becomes useful

because I’m a hobo of solar systems

and I become a wanderer in your body,

as a geographer of your corpse altar

and intruder in your zodiac cenith.

At this moment the end of the thread

talk about the miracle of one day

unrepeatable and mild luck

How strange of an eclipse

under the brief abyssal tides

like ghostly cardamoms approaching

in the deserts of disease

appealing to the late corrections

as it did for millions of years

moss persistence with its epicness

selecting the right humidity

with your organic and fruity hug

in that I put my hope

in what you find in front of your eyes

because I am the one who reads in the borrascas

as I advance toward your directions

who fires violent canines

before those who offend you

to heal that sadness

that leaves the middle of the night when you slip

inevitably and persistently beneath

out the door.

Chandelier in the mornings

this useless armor

And the leaves are blank

soaking up her violently dance

they burn in front of the cabinets of dubious origin.

I hear the birds giving birth to the woods, in the upper angles of a nebula.

At this moment the end of the thread
talk about the miracle of one day
unrepeatable and mild luck
How strange of an eclipse
under the brief abyssal tides
like ghostly cardamoms approaching
in the deserts of disease
appealing to the late corrections
as it did for millions of years
moss persistence with its epicness
selecting the right humidity
with your organic and fruity hug
in that I put my hope
in what you find in front of your eyes
because I am the one who reads in the borrascas
as I advance toward your directions
who fires violent canines
before those who offend you
to heal that sadness
that leaves the middle of the night when you slip
inevitably and persistently beneath
out the door.

written and Illustrated by ©Enrique De Santiago
.

Enrique De Santiago. Poet, Artist and Philosopher

Featured Image: “Beyond the visible world is the non-Euclidean horizon for the dragonfly” acrylic and ink on 250 gm Fabriano paper by Enrique De Santiago

Shanta Lee, The Topography of One’s Body

What does it mean to have secrets as the topography of one’s body?

It is true, not all secrets are created equal. Some add a sway to the hips while others…well…they are a poison that eat us from the inside out.

I’m Tellin’

All unsaids, All secrets are not created equal. Some secrets kin with our bodies because our bodies know that they need to be the safe, the harbor for such things. This is not about that. Some secrets turn a walk, a regular gait to a saunter because the body tastes its sweetness. This is not about that. Certain kinds of othas, secrets that is, well….they bloom somethin else, the poison that eats us from the inside out.

This be bout dat. Dat latter kind. Dat otha kind.


It’s not just in the toxic we trust. We grow. We throw seeds. We replicate it. 

*

When I was a child , there was a statement that we would say that would check the perceived wrong doer. It would be something like, ’Oooooh, I’m tellin.’ What precedes the ‘tellin’ is the series of oooo’s mixed with the arrangement of vowels and consonants after that short phrase all together, in sum, in calculation, may make the 24 million miles long tail of Hailey’s comet green-eyed.

I’m tellin’ was a threat. 

It was to check the doer who was already in deep doin wrong. It was a  nod to the way one was willing to betray secrets, willing to betray the real monster who hid under covers.

The tellers of the toxic became the snitches, the snitches  is who we said would get stitches     In those streets

What does it mean to have secrets as the topography of one’s body?

Be damned, dare stitches,  dare the can of whoops ass…I’m tellin.

No threat…but invocation

Viens

Viens ici

Je ne te l’ai jamais dit mais

Oui je l’ai fait

*

Gwendolyn said it best, “…Even if you are not ready for the day,

It will not always be night.” By not ready, we mean whatever you are holding.
Whatever is hiding within the folds and wrinkles and twists of
unmade beds.
Whatever is being passed across through invisible notes

All ink doesn’t vanish. Some just wears…refusin’ ignoring

By not ready, we mean through the hush of phone calls.
The phone calls that contain whispers.
The phone calls that have no phone lines that require that and only THAT one other person picks up the receiver

The thing that returns to the pit spiraled tight behind the spiral of the belly’s button. The thing that makes it feel like each look by another means they know it because of the way it reads on the body. Tethered and bound. Whatever it is that you are holding and hoping that the sun won’t beat you to it…It’s coming

Je le referais

Je le referais juste pour le chemin

*

What if we said that the keepers of that kinda….  are the sleepers who never awake. What if we said we will nail their coffins shut

And forbid them from wake. What if we flipped the script on the secret keepers, the pain dwellers, all gates and their guards,


The bottom feeders who feed on the toxic blooms, the corpse eaters who grow fat full and bloated  off the bodies that become emaciated from thoooose kinda secrets

What if…We take their power back. We read the topography of the secret laden body and become fluent. Armed with the tongues that know how to untaste poison, daggers in hand.

We  the kind who realllll good with the way the sun sneaks up, how it creeps from behind the curtains of dark. The heat, we feel it on our shoulders. We refuse to hide from the way it will come get us

Nous  avons tous été pese

Nous sommes toujours trouve…voulant

Nous ne pouvons pas le nier

Something about the way a secret taste

Jevu hu fair sa

Shanta Lee Gander is an artist and multi-faceted professional. As an artist, her endeavors include writing prose, poetry, investigative journalism, and photography. Her poetry, prose, and personal essays have been featured in The Crisis Magazine, Rebelle Society, and on the Ms. Magazine Blog.

Exhibitions

Dark Goddess: An Exploration of the Sacred Feminine February 2022  – Spring 2023 * Fleming Museum of Art

Books

Black Metamorphoses  (Etruscan Press, 2023)

GHETTOCLAUSTROPHOBIA (Diode Editions)

Dreamin of Mama While Trying to Speak Woman in Woke Tongues

Shanta Lee, MBA, MFA Shantalee.com * (802) 275 – 8152

Feature Photo Credit © Shanta Lee 2015

Four Poems by Heller Levinson

The light of old things, of beautiful old things, awoke in me.
                                                -- Sherwood 
Anderson
                                                                                                                                                                             

swathes wash-lift, titillative
	fibers twine through time,
		tangle through grasses, air,
			the storied
			the beheld

these old pliers, bruised, complacent,
loose, slackened by the exigencies
of labor, the perfume of application

seasoned armchair yellowing from
the fade of multitude, stuffed 
with the mnemonics of repose, the
armature of provision

spattering through the long cornfields sacred vessels
spring alive, drink the oil of the
corn, flutter to the western winds

things patinated,
	foamingricketyhistorical,

flux-chugging


Abyssal Eros

techy		telltale		totem
	odiferous refract
 calligraphic concert 

	a matter of teeth
upwards & out

doesn’t anyone say g l a d e anymore?

gloss the glimmer reef really
	hammockSplay		over-
tures daub mineral-rinse gyre
				cumulous curdle
					drift
						harmonies
formulate in flour
	acculturate spray

					love is pertinent to confusion
					meticulous punctuation is an expensive luxury

the floorboards rose,
		       then swallowed

written by ©Heller Levinson

Heller Levinson is the originator of Hinge Theory.  His most recent books are Dialogics (Anvil Tongue Press, 2022), Lure, and jus' sayn' (Black Widow Press, 2022). His Query Caboodle and Shift Gristle are scheduled for a Spring 2023 release (also BWP). He lives in the Hudson Valley, NY.

Featured Art Photo Grass Drawing for Sherwood Anderson by Linda Lynch

The Madness of Philosophers by Wouter Kusters

In his seminal work Madness in Civilisation the American sociologist Andrew Scull examines the way madness has been both an ineradicable aspect of any ordered human society, a haunting image of fear and terror, as well as a fascinating realm that inspires and attracts artists and thinkers. With the Greeks the Hippocratian tradition began, in which physicians tried to explain deviations from the average mental and bodily behaviour in natural terms, with the four humoral elements; blood, phlegm, black bile and yellow bile. Meanwhile, folk explanations of what today is often called mental illness were given in terms of the influence of spirits and demons, as well as the actions, lessons, warnings and spells of the gods. Thirdly, it was also thought, in at least some cases, that the mad were perceiving something real, as Plato says: “We made four divisions of the divine madness, ascribing them to four gods, saying that prophecy was inspired by Apollo, the mystic madness by Dionysus, the poetic by the Muses, and the madness of love, inspired by Aphrodite and Eros, we said was the best.” In this third view, Plato’s view, the madman is not a patient with a disease, neither a sufferer from divine fate, but a seeker close to something of high value.

Madness has been translated as the inner individual working through of feelings of guilt, shame, stress, and recurring traumas, all of which are interacting with the neurobiological level of the brain.

Many centuries later, the medical attitude has become dominant in this domain; since the 20th century the profession and discourse of psychiatry has claimed to know best how to deal with madness, and its accounts have been soaked in ‘naturalist’, medical terms. The earlier folk explanations that interpreted madness as a curse, a revenge, or as a whim of gods, demons or spirits, have been transformed into the dry spiritless jargon of modern psychology. Stripping the gods from their ‘real’ character in a communal world, madness has been translated as the inner individual working through of feelings of guilt, shame, stress, and recurring traumas, all of which are interacting with the neurobiological level of the brain.

But what has become of the third way of interpreting madness, namely as mysticism, prophecy and inspiration? About that possibility from times past Andrew Scull remarks: “Madness might represent another possible way of seeing: bacchic, erotic, creative, prophetic, transformational… there was another concealed kind of knowledge, intuitive, visionary and transformative knowledge and madness might provide the keys to this mystical kingdom.” In our modern age however, this search for ‘concealed knowledge’ has been forced to be played out in the open, in the form of science, which led to ‘exact’ and general knowledge about nature and its ‘concealed’ patterns and laws. Knowledge and truth count only as valid today when they are communicable, explicit, and expressible. The visionary and prophetic, on their part, have been banned from any claims on knowledge and truth, and have been referred to the fictional domains of the narrative and the religious. And the transformative? Searching for transformation has become one lifestyle option among many, permissible as long as it remains an individual striving. This transformational drive has been captured and spelled out in self-help books, coaching trajectories, management books etc.

When, what Scull and Plato refer to as mysticism and as divine madness, is fully translated and reduced to the field of mental health, something risks becoming smothered, neglected or even suppressed and denied.

Such conformist adaptions and down to earth elaborations of what were once ‘mad transformations’ have however not exhausted the underlying longing for platonic ‘divine madness’, and the ways that people still long for – whatever we call it – freedom, the Other, infinity, being or nothingness, are numerous. Some of those longing for these things put their feet on the philosophical path, and lean to the explicit, active, overt or even academic forms of philosophizing. Others go their own way in a more intuitive and passively seeking and dreaming manner. Both run the risk that at some point their strivings are considered to be nothing else than expressions of individual psychological problems, or as by-product of a supposed disturbed dopamine transmission. That is, they run the risk that their roamings and free-floating searches for divine madness are ‘psychologised’ – ascribed to their personal identity, or to personal problems, or even reduced to the only one level that is considered to be ‘basic’ with respect to life: the neurobiological level.

These psychologising and psychiatric views on that ideal realm of Plato are, to be sure, not bad in themselves. Society’s well-being depends on mutual trust and care, and is helped by the professionalisation of health care. But when the vague, ineffable area that Scull and Plato refer to as mysticism and as divine madness, is fully translated and reduced to the field of mental health, something risks becoming smothered, neglected or even suppressed and denied. Some of the more thoughtful practitioners and careful psychiatrists in the mental health field are aware of this, and have attempted to approach the inner life, the experiences and desires of their patients, from a  perspective without presuppositions and prejudices about madness, and with an open mind as far as possible. And indeed, some of them, like Ronald Laing or Louis Sass have succeeded to a considerable extent to sketch the worlds of those that are involved in divine madness wander through. But all the more often, those that start from this psychiatric philosophical position remain hampered by the plain fact, that their starting point is the psychiatric diagnosis, and when tracking that diagnostic conclusion or end point back to its origins, they infuse the origins with the supposed crippledness of the endpoint. The diagnosis they make becomes a new identity for the patient, which throws its shadow back to earlier phases. What was once considered day-dreaming, or a peculiar whim, or capricious experience and deviant thoughts, become reinterpreted as only early signs of natural mental disorders: ADHD, autism, schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, etc. – nothing divine to find there! Not only the present state of a person becomes reduced to an amalgam of neurobiological patterns and psychological reactions, but also preceding experiences, thoughts, feelings and behaviour are drawn and reinterpreted into the diagnosis.

Such reinterpretations after diagnosis certainly do have their function: people receive strong narratives that give them a clear sense of identity, and a kind of compass in how to sail further with this diagnosis centered narrative. But the cost could be high as well: the third realm, the realm of divine madness, as I circumscribed it above with help of Scull and Plato himself, might simply vanish. A spiritual search becomes reinterpreted as a psychological search for a strong role model, a philosophical preoccupation becomes an ‘attention deficit’ problem, and a mystical experience becomes ‘salience dysregulation syndrome’.

In my book A Philosophy of Madness I start at the other side of the track: not at the end with diagnosis, but at the beginning with philosophy. What extreme domains of thought are accessible for a philosophically minded person? Where can a study in philosophy, both in its explicit academic form, and in its more intuitive forms, lead to?  Where does the impulse to philosophy stem from? What kind of philosophical thought and experiences can push it to the edge? In this exercise I have focused especially on philosophy, and drawn analysis also from the thoughts and experiences of those that are usually called mystics or spiritual. I started with the initial philosophical sense of wonder (also in Plato, from his work, the Theaetetus) in combination with philosophy’s consequent, consistent reasoning capacity. I followed these philosophical paths, and examined what may happen when you go down the philosophical rabbit hole. When you reason away, and/or dream away, through the philosophies, thoughts and ponderings on age-old questions about time, space, infinity or identity, then you may come at strange, fascinating and seducing thoughts and experiences, that may have quite some affinity with what is going on behind those so often frightening, enigmatic and seemingly impenetrable labels like bipolar disorder or schizophrenia. And with this exercise I hope to have induced a kind of ‘breakthrough’, through the wall that all too often separates philosophy and madness, in order to both confront the armchair philosopher with the ‘real life’ situations where their ideas are acted out, and the ‘madman’ with an explicit, exact reconstruction of the thoughts and experiences that are at the basis of their so-called mental health problems.

With this exercise I hope to have induced a kind of ‘breakthrough’, through the wall that all too often separates philosophy and madness.

On the one end this may have a therapeutic value, since I provide a more thoughtful exploration of the ways of the mind other than the usual psychological and psychiatric accounts. On the other hand, it has a destigmatising value, not by arguing that all persons with and without diagnostic labels should be respected equally, but instead by ‘opening up’ those labels, and detecting common patterns of thought and experiences between madness, dreams, art, and, in particular, philosophy. The notion of madness here may then reveal, and express perhaps in a socially unaccepted and clumsy way, the paradoxical and sometimes unbearable tensions that underlie any systematic attempt or philosophical striving to grasp the whole, or to seek unity and harmony. The passion that underlies so many philosophers’ intellectual drift may lead to a kind of ethereal detachment from earthly practical matters, that may lead them to become sucked up as fuel for further drifting away from the common sense and the communal life. Not only among philosophy students, but also among some of the great philosophers we find periods or episodes where they were for longer or shorter periods ‘out of their mind’, and at least some of them would be today diagnosed away, for instance think of Ludwig Wittgenstein, but also Blaise Pascal, David Hume, Michel Foucault.

To be sure, I do not pretend that all kinds of philosophy only lead to benign visions, prophecies or interesting thought experiments. Philosophy contained and will continue to contain ideas that are dangerous for society or for the well-being of individuals. The contagiousness of these ideas is well-known on the societal level, and the powers that be do everything they can to protect order from society destroying or undermining ideas. On the personal level, there are also ideas and experiences that may be drawn from philosophers like Nietzsche or Deleuze, that may induce ‘mad transformations’, and that may also be conceived as ‘unhealthy’ from an outsiders’ usual, normal perspective. However, to gain access to and explore what the mystical kingdom entails, the one Andrew Scull refers to, it will never suffice to prevent contact with dangerous ideas just because they are considered to be ‘unhealthy’. And perhaps there is another sense of health, greater and more important than mental health. Let me end, by quoting Nietzsche: “Anyone whose soul thirsts to experience the whole range of previous values and aspirations, to sail around all the coasts of this ‘inland sea’ of ideals, anyone who wants to know from the adventures of his own experience how it feels to be the discoverer or conqueror of an ideal, or to be an artist, a saint, a lawmaker, a sage, a pious man, a soothsayer, an old-style divine Ioner – any such person needs one thing above all – the great health, a health that one doesn’t only have, but also acquires continually and must acquire because one gives it up again and again, and must give it up!”

Wouter Kusters
Issue 96, 22nd June 2021 from the IAI Institute of Art and Ideas

Wouter Kusters (1966) is a philosopher, linguist and teacher. His new book Shock Effects will be published in March 2023 . Philosophizing in the Time of Climate Change .
His first public book was Pure Madness: A Quest for the Psychotic Experience  (2004). Pure madness received the Van Helsdingen Prize for the best work in the border area of ​​psychiatry and philosophy, and the Socrates Wisselbeker for the best, most stimulating philosophy book of the year. Philosophy of Madness was published in 2014 . Fundamental and cross-border insights , which also won the Socrates Challenge Cup. The English translation:  A Philosophy of Madness was published in 2020. The Experience of Psychotic Thinking . In 2022 the Arabic translation: فلسفة الجنون, see here .
Wouter Kusters regularly gives courses and lectures about his work and contributes to scientific and general journals. In addition, he collaborates with various researchers, authors, publishers and with the Psychiatry and Philosophy Foundation and the Waardenwerk Foundation .

ALL WRITING IN THIS POST IS A COPYRIGHT OF WOUTER KUSTERS. THIS AN AUTHORIZED DUPLICATION WITH PERMISSION AND EXPRESSED CONSENT FROM THE AUTHOR

Featured picture Jupiter Square Venus Mitchell Pluto

Secret of the Air, Enrique De Santiago

Huge old stars leaning out of the
horizontal cobblestone sheets,
were dictated by an ancient manual of glorious epic forms
where I did not read the cunning locks,
from there fall lights like eagles
what they hang before your pale fortifications
and despite the fact that I descend without air
I cling to the dissected edges of this abyss
walking away from the waves of floral promises
with summer mentions that anoint you.

The amaranth silence rocks the star again
and like the silent lymph
you seek to break beyond the fundamental shell
the one that you came to know in a primitive way
in the sweet stays of belief.

Blows the hydrogen on the leaves
and many cycles are enough for oblivion,
while the trees stand
because they keep their memory in the roots,
to later give shelter to life
vertical.
I am the extended earth,
I still have memories of that
Winter will come without you realizing it.

The specificity of the meander
winding secret of the air
like the grass with its distant star.

written and illustrated by  ©Enrique De Santiago

Artist, Poet
Enrique De Santiago

We Are The Land by Duncan N Pheasant

The land has spirit and we are the land…The rock pulses with energy and movement that we cannot detect…the rock sometimes shows himself and becomes recognizable like a face. The land is what we are, the land keeps us alive, the trees speak to each other about the land and share its nutrients, they live out their lives without any help from man. They are a community and we show them respect. Then there is the everlasting sky all others live beneath him with its many moods and gifts ,we offer prayer to all four directions. We say we don’t think about these things… we know all these things.

Permanent installation at Manitou Island Post Office

Growing up in Mchigeeng First Nation we were poor we didn’t know we were but didn’t feel like it…we had clean clothes food toys…No running water, no phone no inside toilet but we were happy…today I wonder about young kids seeing things on Facebook and tv like friends having parties, new cloths new toys, new this new that…big fancy houses…they look around their homes and community what do they see… What do you see ?

Our Ancestors foretold that water would someday be for sale. Back then this was hard to believe, since the water was so plentiful, so pure, and so full of energy, nutrition and spirit. Today we have to buy pure water, and even then the nutritional minerals have been taken out; it’s just empty liquid. Someday water will be like gold, too expensive to afford

Even the spirit, which belongs to the Great Mystery, returns to its source. Some of our people say this journey takes place on a path of stars. Others describe the spirit’s return to the Great Mystery as a drop of water falling into the ocean. It becomes a part of everything again as the light of a candle becomes one with the fire of the sun. That’s why we can sometimes feel our loved ones in the warm air, or hear them in a bird’s song…or even sense them in the…wind.
We feel them in certain areas or times of the year,, we sense them and think of them and dream of them. Sometimes they talk to us in the dream but most times it’s just good to see them…we wake up thinking of them ,The dream can last a day or we think of the dream for many years…yes they are with us..

Guardian of the Lake

A man by the lake wanted to live forever. A huge fish came about out of the water and pulled him in. The fish had spent his entire life looking for freedom from this world.
He told the man we will go to the door of eternity, you will step through one way and I will go through the other way. This sounded good to the man. They both went through the door.
There said the fish …I now will live a normal life and you will live forever. The man had become the fish. “Stop Wait” he said but the man who was a fish could not hear. To this day the guardian of the lake searches for the man who died a normal death many many years ago. The guardian of the lake, a huge ancient fish.

Mindemoya man

The Mindemoya man…A giant fish appeared to some men on the shore of Mindemoya lake ,they grabbed the fish and were surprised how the fish let himself be caught…they took the fish to the village and it began to cry like a human…A lonely woman came out to see what’s going on…she recognized the crying as her long lost husbands voice…she called out his name then the great fish began to speak “I was once a man but was turned into a fish, by a witch, because I rejected her…and my wife who I see now I cannot be with anymore” The people became afraid and dragged the big fish back to the water…The woman ran after them and jumped in the water with the fish…they were never seen again…next year the waters were teaming with fish and for many years after that.

I AM the Land

Nobody wants anyone to leave, We’re just trying to protect the land and waters for future generations, for all . 95% of British Columbia is unceded native territory as the treaty process for British Columbia started in the 1990s and has yielded only three treaties to date.
Enshrined in Canadian Charter of rights and freedoms Section 25A is the Royal Proclamation which recognizes and affirms indigenous title to land and requires treaties in order to legally possess. Where as no treaty exists those who willingly or inadvertently set themselves upon these lands must remove themselves forthwith. Canada is in violation of their own laws.

The Shaking Tent Ceremony by Norval Morrisseau

The Ojibway Indians had what we call a jeesekun, a shaking tent, or wigwam, where a medicine man does conjuring. There were two kinds of shaking tents. One had its power from the water, the other from the wind or earth. Some Ojibway built their shaking tent in the water, in order to receive power from it. Eight poles were cut and placed in a circle, and each pole was driven about two feet into the ground to keep the tent firm. Two hoops were placed inside the wigwam to keep the poles in position and would be covered with deer hide, birchbark or canvas. Rattles of tin or cari­bou hoof were placed inside to make a rattling noise.

All the Ojibway would gather and sit in a circle facing the shaking tent. This took place at night. The conjurer would disrobe, have his hands tied up and crawl inside the wigwam. He would not speak but would have one Indian, or all, start asking questions, whatever each one wished to know. As the conjurer crawled inside, the tent itself began to shake and the rattles were heard. The Ojibway believe a medicine wind blows from heaven in the tent and that is how it shakes. All the dogs tied close by began to yelp and were afraid but the people were not, for it does not affect human beings. What come into the wigwam to sing or talk are the water god Misshipeshu and other spirits of bears, serpents and animals, thunderbirds, the evil Windigo, the morning star, the sky, water, earth, sun and moon, also female and male sex organs. Each speaks in his own lan­guage but we have an interpreter whom we call Mikkinnuk, a small turtle who is the Devil him­self, who interprets for all these beings. So let it be known now and then remain a secret; it is the Devil himself who is the interpreter.

The Ojibway were given this shaking tent to do both good and evil. A lot of people of the Ojibway tribe used this conjuring tent to conjure people but a lot also used it to cure people, to find lost things, to defend the people from evil sor­cerers, or bad medicine-men, and to know about the future.

Duncan Neganigwane Pheasant Silent Hunter a living ghost that eats with it’s eyes
Mitchell Pluto Collection

Duncan Neganigwane Pheasant, Dedicated to Norval Morriseau on the anniversary of his birth
March 14 1932.
Spirit Warrior 18×24 canvas

Manitoulin island is a place of ancient spirits lying in wait within the cliffs and deep inland lakes. A man with a spirit face looks out across the cliffs as he paints on them. A weary hunter warrior realizes he now is a stranger in this magnificent stone garden He is a shadow man a shadow warrior.

The invisible man from the door of the unknown. He hears the pounding of the drum and heads to it. Modern day Ojibwe and Odawa men sing the songs of old. He stands beside them but they cannot see him He is a spirit warrior.

Duncan Neganigwane Pheasant Tribute to the hunter

written by ©Duncan Neganigwane Pheasant

Duncan Neganigwane Pheasant is a painter from the M’Chigeeng First Nation. He started painting in high school using colours and techniques inspired by Norval Morrisseau and other Woodland style artists. His grandfather, Ambrose Pheasant, told stories that were also a great influence on his artwork. Duncan uses his images to interpret Ojibwe legends and stories that surround the history of his ancestors and Manitoulin Island. Those legends which inspire his work are inscribed on the back of each original painting and a printed copy of the legend will be included with each purchase.

Perivale Gallery Duncan Neganigwane Pheasant

Hidden Motion, Paintings By Tadeusz Baranowski

I am from the generation of the end of the Second World War and the occupation. I have often wondered if it had any effect on my life. I read a statement by a British anthropologist who claimed that there is such a thing in us as genetic memory. All emotions and experiences of generations are recorded in this memory. According to this theory, my generation has genetically passed down from their parents everything that happened to them.

My whole family, father, mother, grandfather, and two of my father’s brothers, were in German concentration camps in Poland during the occupation. Grandpa and uncle never returned from there. My father spent the entire occupation in camps – Majdanek, and later Flossenburg. He showed extraordinary fortitude and willpower to survive. He didn’t tell much about his stay, and I am filled with empty laughter when I read about the repressions and sufferings of some of the heroes of the post-war period. Without taking anything away from them, of course.

Paradoxically, right after the war, my parents (because we had no place to live) were assigned an apartment in a barrack at Majdanek, five meters from the barbed wire of the camp. It was a barrack where the SS staff lived during the war. Not only my family lived there because at that time one of the many rooms of this barrack was called an apartment. I, as a small child, saw this camp up close.

The remains and remnants were not yet organized and archived as they are today in the form of a photographic museum. It was specific. In the crematorium, there were still half-burnt human corpses. In the barracks, thousands of dolls and teddy bears, toys left by children. A barrack – processing human bodies into soap, lampshades made of human skin, a barrack – filled only with glasses or hair cut from women’s heads. I used to watch it as a little kid because, frankly, no one paid any attention to me.

Only at night the camp guards, with flashlights and shovels, search for gold buried under these barracks. Left by the prisoners of the camp, hoping that one day they will redeem themselves from the hands of the torturers. I wasn’t a prisoner, but it’s probably not without reason that I’ve had dreams all my life that I’m in these camps and I’m constantly escaping from them. So something is “on”.

Happiness is not a constant state, and I don’t think there are people who are in it all the time and are euphorically happy. For me, these are some, sometimes completely unforeseen, actually short moments in life that cause this state. And I also think that we remember the moments of unhappiness more than the moments of happiness, it is easier to recall them in memory (or this is a feature of my personality).

Happiness is no stranger to me, of course. I’ve had different moments. In family life, professional life, in states of love intoxication, and alcohol intoxication. But what sticks most in my memory are those seemingly insignificant moments in which I experienced happiness.

In contact with nature, which fascinates me, shocks me with its beauty, and terrifies me with its ruthlessness. I am basically a loner and I feel happy when I look at the sky at midnight and a storm catches me as I swim alone through the middle of the lake. As I get older, I get more and more vulnerable and less and less happy. I look at the species “homo sapiens” with sadness. His unbridled greed, lust for money, disrespect for nature. Also people’s lack of respect for their own species. 80 years of relative peace, without global war (that’s almost two generations), has made people mentally lazy. Dreams of the return of fascism are born. When I was a kid, I saw how it ends.

I live in Poland, near Warsaw, although I was born in Zamość. I am married with three adult daughters and two dogs. I am a graduate of the Academy of Fine Arts in Warsaw at the faculty of painting. Throughout my professional life, I have been dealing with applied graphics, as well as writing and drawing comic books for children (published in millions).


However, painting, to which I returned after years of break, is my passion and my main goal in life. In my work I have always revolved around abstraction, which for me is a form that requires control over form, composition and color. I have developed my own method of combining various materials (wood, cardboard, fabric, resins, glues, acrylic paints) so that the resulting work has a distinct structure and space. My father was a sculptor, maybe that also shaped my aspirations.


Usually, the design of the painting is created earlier, on paper, but I think about it for a long time before I approach the canvas. And although it seems that the exact plan is, I need a lot of time to determine what the painting will look like in the end. Sometimes it develops quite quickly, i.e. three, four days, and sometimes a month.

http://tadeuszbaranowski.eu/

WRITTEN BY TADEUSZ BARANOWSKI ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. ALL ARTWORK AND WRITING IN THIS POST IS A COPYRIGHT OF TADEUSZ BARANOWSKI. THIS AN AUTHORIZED DUPLICATION WITH PERMISSION AND EXPRESSED CONSENT