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Well, what I'm doing is really clothing. I'm not doing sculpture.

quote by Issey Miyake
Added by Lucian Velea
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I am a sculpture

I am sculptor and I sculpt all day
To make a man, a corresponding man, resembling those who were first
The zenith brought us light, brought us food
The zenith brought us heartache a broken charm not soothed

I am a sculptor and I sculpt all day
Carving, sculpting bits of common
It looks fashionable, it’s like ordinary
It looks like a conventional man, he will be popular

Ten English men
Ten English women
Everybody is cool
Everybody is true
Wearing the same clothes
As the sculpture wears to

Battle the outsiders their animals
Raging pit bulls with chains
Look they have a different face
Let’s us murder them a great golden genocide race

The battle passed
And so did the time
But one thing changes and changes and changes and changes and changes and changes
The sculpture really enjoyed their style
He had new clothes
He had acceptance

Battle the outsiders their animals
Unwanted souls shaken from their cage
Look they have different accents
Let’s us murder them drag their tongues from their foolish sayings

The battle passed
And so did the time
But one thing changes and changes and changes and changes and changes and changes
The sculpture really liked that accent
He had new sayings
He had acceptance

Battle the outsiders their animals
Loaded guns with reasons to shoot
Look they have different smells
Let’s us murder their nose’s, piecing through, let us destroy these things they do

The battle passed
And so did the time
But one thing changes and changes and changes and changes and changes and changes
The sculpture really liked those smells

[...] Read more

poem by Joe Taylor
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Everybodys Got A Cousin In Miami

Everybodys got a cousin in miami
By: jimmy buffett, michael tschudin
1993
--spoken:
Hey jimmy, you know anybody in miami that can get me a passport
Real quick?
Oh yeah, yeah man. Ive got a cousin up there. he knows
Everthing about everything. lets see if Ive got his number
Here somewhere, yeah. no, he works out of a payphone...oh yeah.
Ive got it here. okay. todays international investor,
Whatever that is. yeah, everybodys got a cousin in miami. here
We go.
It was was ninety miles to freedom
But they took the risk
Though ocean was all motion
And the wind was brisk
The deadly gunboats never saw them
In the pale moonlight
They were off to cayo hueso
By the dawns early light
The gringo in the garden called the customs man
They answered all his questions
Were allowed to land
The ladies shared a hairbrush
And their husbands had a coke
And they were taken up to krome
To meet with there kin folk
Chorus:
Everybodys got a cousin in miami
(everybodys got a cousin in miami)
Everybody understands the impromptu
Dancing in the heat to the beat
That turns your clothing clammy (ooooohhhhh)
Everybody needs to have a dream come true
In a third world jungle
Not so far away
Lives a natural drummer
With a dream to play
Hes the brother of the lizard
And the flying fish
But hes enchanted by the pictures
>from the satellite dish
So his mama packs his bag
Knots his red neck tie
Send him north to her relations
With a kiss goodbye
Hes bewildered by the plane ride
And the immigration line
Until he sees his christian name
Upon a cardboard sign

[...] Read more

song performed by Jimmy Buffett
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What It Can't Buy

what it can't buy

it will never be able smother you in kisses
it can't curl up next to you for added warmth
it won't whisper..ssshhh everything will be ok
it isn't going to sit with you and watch your children play

money will never hold your hand and walk with you
money can't bring you breakfast in bed
money won't keep darkness away by turning on a light
money isn't going to tuck you in at night

a job will never understand your worries
a job can't conceive of your fears
a job won't hold you tight
a job isn't mindful of your plight

clothing will never pray for your safety
clothing can't break bread with you
clothing won't take away your pain
clothing isn't going to soothe you when you go insane

it will not make a house a home
it can't force people to like you
it won't care if your living well
it isn't going to wonder what little soul you sell

money, job, fortune, and fame
all a shallow game
meaning nothing if no one
holds dearly to your name

poem by Half Past
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I really don't have a theme when I start a sculpture. The rock guides me to the final sculpture. I think that is true for many creative sculpture artists.

quote by Jimmy Carl Black
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Diana - The Spiritual Art Sculpture

Every fragment of your Sculpture
Breathes light, life and love all over me
When a nights silence is left unbroken
Lo and behold! A beautiful morning is awoken

O! Why? O! Why?
O! I don't know why
I write these words for thee
In those eyes, I see a part of me
An assembled reality of immortality
An unadulterated moment of purity
That intense symbolic sign of spirituality
Yet in reality, your life lay in the hands of destiny

Every inch of you bears character
A friend, lover, mother and daughter
Your sculpture occupies more than matter
Beautiful are your smiling eyes
Beautiful are your lips
Both deserve a kiss of everlasting peace

I speak for all as the years pass by
Our love for you only increases
Sorrows for you appear not to decrease
By chance one day we shall all try!
And grant your soul rest in one peace

Poem by Sylvia Chidi(Copyright) - 29/12/2007

Check out amazing sculpture pictures at
http: //womenball.com/sylviachidi/index.php? option=com_content&task=view&id=176&Itemid=39

poem by Sylvia Chidi
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Fine Garments Clothe

We arise transported
fresh from warm
cleansing waters
of restorative bathing,
reluctant to leave
sweet fragrance
of scented waters.

To attend application,
of that first tentative
layer, of an expensive
pleasing perfume.
It raises our spirits,
from mire of depression.
Preparation for challenge
in oncoming day.
Raises recurrent mondayitis
spirits, from mire of Monday.

Leaving behind sanctuary
comfort of found
cave like refuge
seclusion carved out
from threatening
encroaching
competitive world.

We stand forth
early or late from dawn,
to face the world
with purpose,
in predetermined day.
Our duty performed
so exploitative society
may creak groan,
under the strain
of this a new day.

We proceed to apply,
the first tentative
layer, of our
pleasing perfume.
As we apply ourselves
to applications needed,
to face our challenges
as challenges are greeted.
With this our new found
borrowed freshness of mind.

[...] Read more

poem by Terence George Craddock
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So, in other words, how you respond to a sculpture, how a viewer sees the sculpture, is vital.

quote by Anthony Caro
Added by Lucian Velea
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Well, I never studied design and I went to art school to study art, you know, sculpture and things like that, and ended up making things like sculpture and started making chairs and jewelry together and that's how I started.

quote by Marc Newson
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If Friendship Were A Poem

A sharer of joy
To place it golden
A sharer of sadness
With comforting words

A maker of laughs
To sink a scowl
A maker of logic
When none is seen

A sculpture of beauty
In your mind
A sculpture of fun
In boring times

A memory of all
The happy moments
A memory of things
We thought forgotten

If a friend where a poem
This is what it would be
To show how much every second means
When I’m with you my friend

poem by Annie Clarke
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Art Groupie

Ill never write my memoirs,
Theres nothing in my book,
The only way you see me an art groupie,
Im hooked.
Some people like to be used,
Ive been used and amused,
But thats the way I see me,
My art groupie look.
Love me in a picture,
Kiss me in a cast,
Touch me in a sculpture,
Whisper in my mask.
Dont ask me any questions,
My personal life is a bore,
Admire me in glory,
An art groupie. thats all.
Love me in a picture,
Kiss me in a cast,
Touch me in a sculpture,
Whisper in my mask.
Ill never write my memoirs,
Theres nothing in my book,
The only way you see me an art groupie,
Im hooked.

song performed by Grace Jones
Added by Lucian Velea
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A Dream of Venice

NUMB, half asleep, and dazed with whirl of wheels,
And gasp of steam, and measured clank of chains,
I heard a blithe voice break a sudden pause,
Ringing familiarly through the lamp-lit night,
“Wife, here's your Venice!”
I was lifted down,
And gazed about in stupid wonderment,
Holding my little Katie by the hand—
My yellow-haired step-daughter. And again
Two strong arms led me to the water-brink,
And laid me on soft cushions in a boat,—
A queer boat, by a queerer boatman manned—
Swarthy-faced, ragged, with a scarlet cap—
Whose wild, weird note smote shrilly through the dark.
Oh yes, it was my Venice! Beautiful,
With melancholy, ghostly beauty—old,
And sorrowful, and weary—yet so fair,
So like a queen still, with her royal robes,
Full of harmonious colour, rent and worn!
I only saw her shadow in the stream,
By flickering lamplight,—only saw, as yet,
White, misty palace-portals here and there,
Pillars, and marble steps, and balconies,
Along the broad line of the Grand Canal;
And, in the smaller water-ways, a patch
Of wall, or dim bridge arching overhead.
But I could feel the rest. 'Twas Venice!—ay,
The veritable Venice of my dreams.

I saw the grey dawn shimmer down the stream,
And all the city rise, new bathed in light,
With rose-red blooms on her decaying walls,
And gold tints quivering up her domes and spires—
Sharp-drawn, with delicate pencillings, on a sky
Blue as forget-me-nots in June. I saw
The broad day staring in her palace-fronts,
Pointing to yawning gap and crumbling boss,
And colonnades, time-stained and broken, flecked
With soft, sad, dying colours—sculpture-wreathed,
And gloriously proportioned; saw the glow
Light up her bright, harmonious, fountain'd squares,
And spread out on her marble steps, and pass
Down silent courts and secret passages,
Gathering up motley treasures on its way;—

Groups of rich fruit from the Rialto mart,
Scarlet and brown and purple, with green leaves—
Fragments of exquisite carving, lichen-grown,
Found, 'mid pathetic squalor, in some niche
Where wild, half-naked urchins lived and played—

[...] Read more

poem by Ada Cambridge
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The Temple of Fame

In that soft season, when descending show'rs
Call forth the greens, and wake the rising flow'rs;
When op'ning buds salute the welcome day,
And earth relenting feels the genial day,
As balmy sleep had charm'd my cares to rest,
And love itself was banish'd from my breast,
(What time the morn mysterious visions brings,
While purer slumbers spread their golden wings)
A train of phantoms in wild order rose,
And, join'd, this intellectual sense compose.
I stood, methought, betwixt earth, seas, and skies;
The whole creation open to my eyes:
In air self-balanc'd hung the globe below,
Where mountains rise and circling oceans flow;
Here naked rocks, and empty wastes were seen,
There tow'ry cities, and the forests green:
Here sailing ships delight the wand'ring eyes:
There trees, and intermingled temples rise;
Now a clear sun the shining scene displays,
The transient landscape now in clouds decays.
O'er the wide Prospect as I gaz'd around,
Sudden I heard a wild promiscuous sound,
Like broken thunders that at distance roar,
Then gazing up, a glorious pile beheld,
Whose tow'ring summit ambient clouds conceal'd.
High on a rock of Ice the structure lay,
Steep its ascent, and slipp'ry was the way;
The wond'rous rock like Parian marble shone,
And seem'd, to distant sight, of solid stone.
Inscriptions here of various Names I view'd,
The greater part by hostile time subdu'd;
Yet wide was spread their fame in ages past,
And Poets once had promis'd they should last.
Some fresh engrav'd appear'd of Wits renown'd;
I look'd again, nor could their trace be found.
Critics I saw, that other names deface,
And fix their own, with labour, in their place:
Their own, like others, soon their place resign'd,
Or disappear'd, and left the first behind.
Nor was the work impair'd by storms alone,
But felt th' approaches of too warm a sun;
For Fame, impatient of extremes, decays
Not more by Envy than excess of Praise.
Yet part no injuries of heav'n could feel,
Like crystal faithful to th' graving steel:
The rock's high summit, in the temple's shade,
Nor heat could melt, nor beating storm invade.
Their names inscrib'd, unnumber'd ages past
From time's first birth, with time itself shall last;
These ever new, nor subject to decays,

[...] Read more

poem by Alexander Pope
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England And Spain

Too long have Tyranny and Power combined,
To sway, with iron sceptre, o'er mankind;
Long has Oppression worn th' imperial robe,
And Rapine's sword has wasted half the globe!
O'er Europe's cultured realms, and climes afar,
Triumphant Gaul has pour'd the tide of war;
To her fair Austria veil'd the standard bright;
Ausonia's lovely plains have own'd her might;
While Prussia's eagle, never taught to yield,
Forsook her tow'ring height on Jena's field!

Oh! gallant Fred'ric! could thy parted shade,
Have seen thy country vanquish'd and betray'd;
How had thy soul indignant mourn'd her shame,
Her sullied trophies, and her tarnish'd fame!
When Valour wept lamented BRUNSWlCK's doom,
And nursed with tears, the laurels on his tomb;
When Prussia, drooping o'er her hero's grave,
Invoked his spirit to descend and save;
Then set her glories -- then expired her sun,
And fraud achieved -- e'en more than conquest won!

O'er peaceful realms, that smiled with plenty gay,
Has desolation spread her ample sway;
Thy blast, oh Ruin! on tremendous wings,
Has proudly swept o'er empires, nations, kings!
Thus the wild hurricane's impetuous force,
With dark destruction marks its whelming course;
Despoils the woodland's pomp, the blooming plain,
Death on its pinion, vengeance in its train!
-- Rise, Freedom, rise! and breaking from thy trance,
Wave the dread banner, seize the glittering lance!
With arm of might assert thy sacred cause,
And call thy champions to defend thy laws!
How long shall tyrant power her throne maintain?
How long shall despots and usurpers reign?
Is honour's lofty soul for ever fled?
Is virtue lost? is martial ardour dead?
Is there no heart where worth and valour dwell,
No patriot WALLACE, no undaunted TELL?
Yes, Freedom, yes! thy sons, a noble band,
Around thy banner, firm, exulting stand;
Once more 'tis thine, invincible, to wield
The beamy spear, and adamantine shield!
Again thy cheek with proud resentment glows,
Again thy lion-glance appals thy foes;
Thy kindling eye-beam darts unconquer'd fires,
Thy look sublime the warrior's heart inspires:
And while, to guard thy standard and thy right,
Castilians rush, intrepid, to the fight;

[...] Read more

poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Nuremberg

In the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadow-lands
Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg, the ancient,
stands.

Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of art and
song,
Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks that round them
throng:

Memories of the Middle Ages, when the emperors, rough and bold,
Had their dwelling in thy castle, time-defying, centuries old;

And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in their uncouth
rhyme,
That their great imperial city stretched its hand through every
clime.

In the court-yard of the castle, bound with many an iron hand,
Stands the mighty linden planted by Queen Cunigunde's hand;

On the square the oriel window, where in old heroic days
Sat the poet Melchior singing Kaiser Maximilian's praise.

Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous world of Art:
Fountains wrought with richest sculpture standing in the common
mart;

And above cathedral doorways saints and bishops carved in stone,
By a former age commissioned as apostles to our own.

In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined his holy dust,
And in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from age to age their
trust;

In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of sculpture rare,
Like the foamy sheaf of fountains, rising through the painted
air.

Here, when Art was still religion, with a simple, reverent heart,
Lived and labored Albrecht Durer, the Evangelist of Art;

Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with busy hand,
Like an emigrant he wandered, seeking for the Better Land.

Emigravit is the inscription on the tombstone where he lies;
Dead he is not, but departed,--for the artist never dies.

Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine seems more fair,
That he once has trod its pavement, that he once has breathed its
air!

[...] Read more

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Dina Vieny, Maillol And Matisse

When posing for Maillol she looked quite obese,
since Aristide thought fat is fine,
but having been drawn by his good friend Matisse,
she left him reduced to a line.

Inspired by an obituary of Dina Vierny, Aristide Maillol’s model, by William Grimes (“Dina Vierny,89, model for Maillol’s sculptures, ” NYT, January 27,2009) :
Ms. Vierny was a 15-year-old lycée student in Paris when she met Maillol, in the mid-1930s. The architect Jean-Claude Dondel, a friend of her father’s, decided that she would make the perfect model for the artist, who was 73 and in the professional doldrums. “Mademoiselle, it is said that you look like a Maillol and a Renoir, ” Maillol wrote to her. “I’d be satisfied with a Renoir.” For the next 10 years, until his death in a car accident in 1944, Ms. Vierny was Maillol’s muse, posing for monumental works of sculpture that belied her modest height of 5 feet 2 inches. By mutual agreement, the relationship was strictly artistic….Her Rubenesque figure and jet-black hair indeed made her, as Dondel had predicted, “a living Maillol, ” memorialized in works like “The Seated Bather, ” “The Mountain, ” “Air, ” “The River, ” and “Harmony, ” his last, unfinished sculpture. Maillol also turned to her as a subject for drawings and painted portraits, like “Dina With a Scarf, ” now in the Maillol Museum.
In 1939, Maillol took refuge at his home in Banyuls-sur-Mer, at the foot of the eastern Pyrenees. There, Ms. Vierny, who had already begun working for a Resistance group in Paris, was approached by the Harvard-educated classicist Varian Fry, whose organization in Marseille helped smuggle refugees from occupied France into Spain. Unbeknownst to Maillol, she began working as a guide, identifiable to her fleeing charges by her red dress. The work was doubly dangerous because she was Jewish. Ms. Vierny soon began dozing off at her posing sessions. The story came out, and Maillol, a native of the region, showed her secret shortcuts, smugglers’ routes and goat paths to use. After several months of working for the Comité Fry, Ms. Vierny was arrested by the French police, who seized her correspondence with her friends in the Surrealist movement but failed to notice stacks of forged passports in her room. A lawyer hired by Maillol won her acquittal at trial, and to keep her out of harm’s way the artist sent her to pose for Matisse in Nice. “I am sending you the subject of my work, ” Maillol told Matisse, “whom you will reduce to a line.” Matisse did several drawings and proposed an ambitious painting that he called a “Matisse Olympia, ” after the famous painting by Manet. When Maillol heard that the project would take at least six months, he hastily recalled her to Banyuls. She also posed for Dufy and for Bonnard, who used her as the model for “Somber Nude.” In 1943, Ms. Vierny was again arrested, this time by the Gestapo, in Paris. She was released after six months in prison when Maillol appealed to Arno Breker, Hitler’s favorite sculptor.

1/27/09

poem by Gershon Hepner
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Confessio Amantis. Explicit Liber Quintus

Incipit Liber Sextus

Est gula, que nostrum maculavit prima parentem
Ex vetito pomo, quo dolet omnis homo
Hec agit, ut corpus anime contraria spirat,
Quo caro fit crassa, spiritus atque macer.
Intus et exterius si que virtutis habentur,
Potibus ebrietas conviciata ruit.
Mersa sopore labis, que Bachus inebriat hospes,
Indignata Venus oscula raro premit.

---------------------------------- -------------------------------------------------

The grete Senne original,
Which every man in general
Upon his berthe hath envenymed,
In Paradis it was mystymed:
Whan Adam of thilke Appel bot,
His swete morscel was to hot,
Which dedly made the mankinde.
And in the bokes as I finde,
This vice, which so out of rule
Hath sette ous alle, is cleped Gule;
Of which the branches ben so grete,
That of hem alle I wol noght trete,
Bot only as touchende of tuo
I thenke speke and of no mo;
Wherof the ferste is Dronkeschipe,
Which berth the cuppe felaschipe.
Ful many a wonder doth this vice,
He can make of a wisman nyce,
And of a fool, that him schal seme
That he can al the lawe deme,
And yiven every juggement
Which longeth to the firmament
Bothe of the sterre and of the mone;
And thus he makth a gret clerk sone
Of him that is a lewed man.
Ther is nothing which he ne can,
Whil he hath Dronkeschipe on honde,
He knowth the See, he knowth the stronde,
He is a noble man of armes,
And yit no strengthe is in his armes:
Ther he was strong ynouh tofore,
With Dronkeschipe it is forlore,
And al is changed his astat,
And wext anon so fieble and mat,
That he mai nouther go ne come,
Bot al togedre him is benome
The pouer bothe of hond and fot,

[...] Read more

poem by John Gower
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The Task: Book I. -- The Sofa

I sing the Sofa. I who lately sang
Truth, Hope, and Charity, and touched with awe
The solemn chords, and with a trembling hand,
Escaped with pain from that adventurous flight,
Now seek repose upon an humbler theme;
The theme though humble, yet august and proud
The occasion, - for the fair commands the song.

Time was when clothing, sumptuous or for use,
Save their own painted skins, our sires had none.
As yet black breeches were not, satin smooth,
Or velvet soft, or plush with shaggy pile.
The hardy chief upon the rugged rock
Washed by the sea, or on the gravelly bank
Thrown up by wintry torrents roaring loud,
Fearless of wrong, reposed his weary strength.
Those barbarous ages past, succeeded next
The birthday of invention, weak at first,
Dull in design, and clumsy to perform.
Joint-stools were then created; on three legs
Upborne they stood, - three legs upholding firm
A massy slab, in fashion square or round.
On such a stool immortal Alfred sat,
And swayed the sceptre of his infant realms;
And such in ancient halls and mansions drear
May still be seen, but perforated sore
And drilled in holes the solid oak is found,
By worms voracious eating through and through.

At length a generation more refined
Improved the simple plan, made three legs four,
Gave them a twisted form vermicular,
And o'er the seat with plenteous wadding stuffed
Induced a splendid cover green and blue,
Yellow and red, of tapestry richly wrought
And woven close, or needle-work sublime.
There might ye see the peony spread wide,
The full-blown rose, the shepherd and his lass,
Lap-dog and lambkin with black staring eyes,
And parrots with twin cherries in their beak.

Now came the cane from India, smooth and bright
With Nature's varnish; severed into stripes
That interlaced each other, these supplied
Of texture firm a lattice-work, that braced
The new machine, and it became a chair.
But restless was the chair; the back erect
Distressed the weary loins that felt no ease;
The slippery seat betrayed the sliding part
That pressed it, and the feet hung dangling down,

[...] Read more

poem by William Cowper
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There's a way in which you can look at clothing as your outer skin. And because you were discriminated against because of your complexion, the way in which you could overcome that was through the way in which you presented yourself with your clothing.

quote by Ed Smith
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Inward Thoughts of an Old Husband

Gifts of clothing and toys, just because
we really need to give.

Trying to keep up with a fast crawling baby.
(a niece actually, for we can never
have one)

The end of the biannual clothing rearranging/swapping/packing/organizing
(things that she is learning
to offer to the neighborhood
sense of community) .

McDonald’s Caramel Frappé
(she is getting fatter
everyday but how can
she help it?)

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Food, Clothing, Money, Shelter, and...

Food, clothing, money and shelter
I have them all
Why is this heaviness in life
Why is it to be hauled?

Food, clothing, money and shelter
are all requirements of my body
While pursuing all these material necessities
I forgot to feed my soul.

An engine needs fuel to be propelled
Soul needs a goal
Without goal the life is empty
Goal makes the life whole.

No goal means no life
Worry and fear cloud the soul
To live life to the fullest
I need to have something in the morning
to wake up for.

poem by Anshul Gupta
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