Tag Archives: art

Who will benefit from the digital revolution?

“… an extremely important contribution to the debate about how we ensure that every human being benefits from the digital revolution that is still gathering speed. If you read only one book on technology in the next 12 months, it should be this one.” -Gary Hamel


As mentioned by karthix@gmail.com (in person)

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How could I?


I hail the spontaneous
as opposed to the perfected.
And art as not separated
from life – how could I
chase to describe being in
an abstract or impersonal way?

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Not a Question

She shows her self                                    To those who will listen

She talks                                                       To those who will see

Photo1114 Photo1115 Photo1118 Photo1123

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Diving at last into my birth-water (Part 3)


‘My blue angel of cement

she cracked there and then.

A body, two, rolled on a pain canvas.’


With me, three, in frozen meditation space.

I stood of silence, my mind

blending with the red

as all the birds took flight

I unglazed her melting through the pavement,

would have if I could have,

it might have saved her.


‘He, too, the crow, at the funeral

in a tux and white gloves

is now a dead man.

It is not even his Work of Art.

That Silver gelatin print (350 by 270

Millimetres) belongs to the artist estate

and to Harry Schunk,

the man

who took the photograph.


I never got to tell her but all the same

She was my red fire heart gold. She is my

Fire in the heart of the void.’


Him? He would only paint the sky

And refused to paint himself.


Harry and I go to that tree

Sometimes and stare at a new gold vein

Trying to tell her tale.


Sweet worms massaging

Sun penetrated whispers

Of Laika still in orbit.


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Diving at last into my birth-water (Part 2)

Before, my thoughts up there, then

They were so cold and sober:

‘I once signed my name across the sky, that day as I lay

upon the beach of Nice. The sky I since call mine

is what I will inhabit now, if only for a brief moment.

Without a parachute I stand

on the verge of the ever-vastest.

I happily proclaim ‘Take care!

as I catch air and air

will only touch me.’’

But I, the real I,

stood on the side, would never dare

to smear myself with paint, would rather

put on a tuxedo and white gloves, make the in-pieces-

lady-whole – a piece of art completed, under my control.

The shape of the body, its lines, its strange colours hovering

between death and life, the fires that burn the heart

hold for me no interest.

The leap off an old suburban house, a comment on the Front

Page of a mock Parisien daily France Soir.

I regret to reveal that she was not a part of my plan.

I created her death, I admit, but then I truly did not see her.

If so I would have said:

‘A little to the right,

over to the left’,

maintaining myself the one to crush.

An Olympic diver in his prime

avoiding so far falling

under the spell of that train-phenomenon dreams,

of brusque landings in the past

I was diving at last

into my birth-water.

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Diving at last into my birth-water (Part 1)


This is what it was like then,

from my point of view that is,

with me on pedals then, there

in the middle of the street.

I am only trying to explain

the thoughts that were walking my brain:


‘Emotions cycle on dry roads.

Spring days hold me like

they never want to leave.

Indifferent blue, green, a tree,

in-human vegetal beast

not even trying to speak.’


He, above who later remembers:


’Across crusty paved layer quickly.

The pain she encapsulates and carries,

sometimes brings under ground

to soil soft golden. Still she sits,

wrapped in blue cloth, then red

fire heart gold. She is my

fire in the heart of the void.


If I could turn my head, unglaze, go ahead,

touch her pain, let her come to life, ask

– no tell her! about black birds in flight

tell her to give up the fight.


I would have

turned around knowing

almost what to say,

but out came only a shout:

– Watch out!

’There is something falling

– Above you!!!


For the moment had passed

when there was anything I

could have done about it.’


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I am

but all you say
is liquid.

I am
but a membrane.

You may not
the crystals
but they can heal
my holes
your dryness
or someone else’s loch-Ness.

I only give birth. I do not
recall the pain. Or the exact
formation of the toy-soldiers painted who
are only there to execute
the wishes of the child
I only set free for you
to fulfil its’ birthright.

My words orchestrated are
what I was
I must be free
of debts
and them.

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To Gallery-goers and Elizabeth J.

I will show you a gallery of air
with washed ashore paintings
through which we can all climb.

A few steps, a star viewed
from atop a high-rise mountain, light
that reaches faraway squares,
their men in ice-cubes.

Set music to mind, can you hear
that sound of continuous flight?
Words, murmurs, paint are all there
to rub the burning ice.

We are near, here, in this gallery.
We are lights in kaleidoscopes of air.

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Wishful Wishes

The urge a few months ago
to register and forever save
instantaneous traces of spring,
showers on a canvas of south winds.

That trip from Paris to Nice
Down Route National 7
at a hundred miles per hour,
all for in the end
a canvas freshly coated
on the roof of my white Citroen.

The heat, the cold, the wind and the rain
how they all combined with the light
to age my canvas prematurely-
thirty or forty years condensed
into one single day.

The driver I am only
an architect of air, soon buried
in bowels of earth but today
I am not as afraid
as I was yesterday of being
a souvenir of the future.

Free may the impossible arrive
and declare his Kingdom quickly.

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