FATHERS HOUSE

New Postings - Wednesday 1/17/07

To comment on this site just scroll down at the end of any posting and click on the word comment...then follow the yellow brick road.....

Postcards of the Hanging:

DRAG - COPY - PASTE THE ADDRESS BELOW TO SEE IMAGES OF THE HANGING

http://www.flickr.com/photos/pidjin/sets/72157594481893812/




new images:

WHITE NOISE - '07




MEMORY PALACE - '07





OTHERS - '07

LIMBO

LIMBO

at present under a wave
a notion precariously teeters
center - off center
grab at it
sink down til all is lost
get there
don't be afraid
never ambiguous
always uncertain
on no uncertain terms
do you see
what you felt
yesterday
make it no option
to decide
one way or another
express something
beyond yourself
time will tell
cliche' are true
life is not
river's winding down
tonight is who you are
tomorrow is never
nor will it be ever
for there is nothing
in limbo
and nothing
is all you want

Opening - Friday Jan. 19 - 07 !!!!

* CLICK ON IMAGE TO ENLARGE





If you are not busy this Friday come have some wine and cheese and Empanadas....see some good art...and enjoy the night....







PRELUDE

she danced inside me
forever enchantress
three times my heart
always and forever
chances are she is no more
yet the light of day
has turned green
night beckons
fantasy continues








WHITE

wide innocence
original sin
barnacaled
moss
aged and ageless
filled with rainbows
straw
and souls of good and evil
forgiveness sleeps with rightgeous
sleeps with swords and nymphs
dreaming life
living dreams
eating oceans
surfing the foam
drowning in angels
symphonies
seduction










THRESHOLD

there you are
about to cross
step forward
naked new
if you stop now
you won't ever
bring it all with you
it is all there any way
leap run flail at it
no hesitation
but if you do - hesitate
contemplate
these words
you are there
you have broken the plane
find your pace
and continue


r. turturro - 1/01/07

IMAGES AND WORDS - 07

*click on images to ENLARGE!





SUNYATA

in it
stewed the universe
no matter what?







SWAYED

all is nature
to be itself true
man as well
makes himself again
and again
sempre avanti
emptied
until filled













PALENDROMES

back and forth
no man's land
no lands manned
for the will
and the will to for
the sameness
the difference
the dastardly
and the dead
doing
chewing
and always moving
inside the still
of the frame
of the moments
that speak
back
ward and forward
until there is only one
and one is only
all there is






FALL

wake up!
it is not a dream
everything is right there
simple dark foreboding
lies always lies
adulterated
meandering
myopic
treachery
guile and gutless
headed south
headed into oblivion
but for the children
for the child
in us
truth is the child
in you
around you
embrace it
it never lies
and when it falls
there is no denying
it falls upward
to the heavens
from where it came





ZERO GRAVITY

walkin with the weathers worne bones
feeling the frost up on my finger tips
and no herolded heeling comes from hell or above
not yet not before
but still it is not never
still there is hope
zeros aside
the numbing of numbers
of toes
my feet disappearing
bend down to them
feel them
drop the world on them
don't be a statistic
if you lose your place
walk on stumps
kneel in reverence to the great mysteries
fall sideways
never look back
lines are gone
air aparent
grab hold of nothing
freedom awaits

Happy New Year!!!! 1 / 1 / 07 - The New Stuff

"Dramas on West Broadway" by Jens Brockmeier - December 30th, 2006

Dramas on West Broadway

The more paintings Ralph Turturro creates, the more one of the most dazzling qualities of his art becomes manifest: its variety. Not only is he impressively productive – there is an inexhaustible outpouring, an almost Picassoesque flow of new visions that carries along all kinds of things and thoughts and associations he finds on his way. No doubt, like the great Spaniard he is a finder, not a searcher. But what strikes me even more each time I see a new work: there are never two pictures alike. There is no replication. There may be variations of a theme, a set of figures, a color, a contrast, a format, a brushstroke, an atmosphere, a rhythm, a sound, a feeling, a tension – but no replications. Each work is a new piece, a new bewildering mark left on the world.

It makes sense to me that there is not, cannot be, one particular source of inspiration or influence. Everyone and everything I am in contact with influences me, Ralph says; “my kids, my students, the man on the street that is kind, that is mean. It all goes into the soup, into the process of forgetting everything when you begin and trusting that all that is real and true will be discovered as you work.” Philip Roth, in his latest novel Everyman, repeats a remark by Chuck Close that “amateurs look for inspiration; the rest of us just get up and go to work” – go to work, one might want to add, trusting that all that is real and true will be discovered as you work. I think Close’s line could also appear in one of Ralph Turturro’s paintings, possibly dissolved into almost unreadable scribbles.

Viewing these paintings one might want to imagine a number of them put together as to form a theater. The theater stages that man on the street, kind or mean, the kids and students, the people walking along West Broadway, all of them finding themselves suddenly in the midst of mysterious dramas. Theater needs its audience as they need it. This picture theater addresses them as actors, not passive receptors. It draws them into the play. Quite like Ralph himself when he, as he sometimes does, asks you when you are looking at one of his paintings. What do you think of it? Of that dark edge here, the scribble there, the outbreak of blue in that corner? Perhaps, if you say something, the answers are being transformed right away into new associations, new visuals, new speculations, fueling the flow.

Who says that speculations cannot turn words into colors, figures, and, say, mirrors, as they do with kids and people in the street? How would this work? Ask Paul Muldoon, the Irish poet, who writes that he uses “the word ‘speculation,’ by the way, with an eye to its far-flung roots in specula, ‘watch-tower,’ and speculum, ‘mirror.’” Or look at Ralph Turturro’s paintings.

December 30th, 2006 Jens Brockmeier

12 - 29 - 06 COLLIDE

COLLIDE

say nothing as you bellow forth with no pride your colors your textures
expecting not fame or fortune but more - enlightenment
to be taught the way to live from you
the way to see and feel about our time
about butting form to form
clashing color
running dribbling sliding under and over where least expected
learn then from the collisions here from the way things fall and manifest themselves
without your intervention but instead your invention to seize when the time is ours again

OF FICTION

OF FICTION

curving smooth round edged raised
natural untouched by hands
plush and filled with meaning
non needy; stands alone
evolving; sucking the light
projecting profound subtle whispers
eating oceans along side JJ
quietly making history as it floats
on ill papered walls
hence its name
where by all things inanimate
come to life


* OF FICTION PART 2

I am of fiction as I am of fiber
Of this day of displaced times and myths
For to think otherwise is madness or artistry

* NOTE:
A non-fiction entity? Would that have me carrying the factual pods; palms to heaven, glossy eyed, staring, walking in a mannered, deliberate, determined step - two, three - to deliver a fact - based agenda of correctness’s; speak for a cause or four; site history and wince when you find out the flies ‘re buzzing and buzzards hoverin o’er their prey
I can no more be fact than a page of pulp, let alone a non idea; fictitious or not, that postulates the rhetoric of rethreaded ire, of damnations, of damned Nations….
Of omitted events, of half truths, of blatant lies of the pomposity of circumstances…
Nor is it accidental for truth to be stranger than…. and might we add less filled with truths - than fiction…..and then as we watch the march of angels come hither and anyone dreams of me ‘say’ for some years after with a heaviness, with hatred…well I suppose they will just might forget me as if I never existed….

SOLO

SOLO

back inside the underside of a lit but dwindling light
rests my stolid un yielding desires for solitude
for my unrequited yearning to be free
of all attachments young and old
to run through the stasis
of my limbs
to dive
headlong
into
the waters of a new life
the evolving life I've made for myself
alone and filled with fantasies that sustain
that build and grow each moment only to be interrupted
by the banality of every day routine machines and their thin crusted emptinesses
at present my longing is ebbed by the subversity and secracy derived from keeping it to myself

12 - 27 -06 - Story Line

Story Line

And Narrative follows
in my dreams
in my wake
not common
not at all
is all there is
is what I am
is beyond me
which is who I am
always
in the story
out of the story
always

turning words to paint
turning things to colors
turning lines away from
toward something
discovering as you go
how else is there

Bi - Partisans

Bi - Partisans

mixed nuts all of us
need necessities
need to get unscrewed to re-learn
to un-learn to be one like we were
break down labels
become the blood
become the worm
that does not know
to know nothing at all
is to move earth

Family

Family

Moves in
from far away
leave old familiar
create the new
become muse
become lost
become shadows
reach back
look for familiar
discover what is to cherish again
don't let go
it is your rock
it is your dust

Exposed

Exposed

when going a step further
almost inside out
depraved can't stop
relinqished from all normalcy
twist round and round
miss completely any groove
no bottom
feels
felt
for now
bemused
will sleep better tonight
go at it again tomorrow