Monthly Archives: August 2012

Artist Motoi Yamamoto first began creating salt labyrinths in 1994 after the death of his sister. Since then he has traveled all over the world building these intricate art works as temporary monuments as expressions of his memories of her. Traditionally, salt is used in Japanese culture for purification and mourning after the death of a loved one. Through his art Yamamoto’s grieves for his sister while giving beauty and life to the world.


If you’re in the L.A. area, be sure to check out his upcoming exhibit opening in September at the Laband Art Gallery. More info here.


Lately, I have become captivated by artist Yayoi Kusama and her work. After her collaboration with fashion house Louis Vuitton was announced I wanted to learn more. What caught my attention was of course the polka dots– I love everything polka dot– but, delving deeper into the work, I became interested in her as the artist and person, almost more than the work itself. Kusama was born in Japan but came to New York in the late 1950’s where she thrived in the avant-garde art scene. She returned to Japan in 1973 and began writing surrealistic poetry and prose. At the same time she became ill and checked herself into a mental institution where she still lives and produces her work today. Currently, she has an exhibit on display at the Whitney Museum of American Art in New York.

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Currently reading:

Ah, but poems amount to so little when you write them too early in your life. You ought to wait and gather sense and sweetness for a whole lifetime, and a long one if possible, and then, at the very end, you might perhaps be able to write ten good lines. For poems are not, as people think, simple emotions (one has emotions early enough)–they are experiences. For the sake of a simple poem, you must see many cities, many people and Things, you must understand animals, must feel how birds fly, and know the gesture which small flowers make when they open in the morning. You must be able to think back to streets in unknown neighborhoods, to unexpected encounters and to partings you had long seen coming; to days of childhood whose mystery is still unexplained, to parents whom you had to hurt when they brought in a joy and you didn’t pick it up (it was a joy meant for somebody else–); to childhood illnesses that began so strangely with so many profound and difficult transformations, to days in quiet, restrained rooms and to mornings by the sea, to the sea itself, to seas, to nights of travel that rushed along high overhead and went flying with all the stars,–and it is still not enough to be able to think of all that. You must have memories of many nights of love, each one different from all the others, memories of women screaming in labor, and of light, pale, sleeping girls who have just given birth and are closing again. But you must also have been beside the dying, must have sat beside the dead in the room with the open window and the scattered noises. And it is not yet enough to have memories. You must be able to forget them when they are many, and you must have the immense patience to wait until they return. For the memories themselves are not important. Only when they have changed into our very well blood, into glance and gesture, and are nameless, no longer to be distinguished from ourselves–only then can it happen that in some very rare hour the first word of a poem arises in their midst and goes forth from them.

– Excerpt from The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge by Rainer Maria Rilke