LOBBING HAND GRENADES: REMARKS ON BARRY FLANAGAN by J.P. Donleavy
August 4, 2008 10:10 AM Subscribe
Now, believe it or not, in my reclusive life, I had never heard of Barry Flanagan except it was mentioned that the nice, very quiet gentleman was a sculptor.
This is exactly why I am still wondering why this is BOTW.
posted by allkindsoftime at 11:01 AM on August 4, 2008
This is exactly why I am still wondering why this is BOTW.
posted by allkindsoftime at 11:01 AM on August 4, 2008
We are all pathetically grateful for modern sculpture that looks like it would rather delight us than crush us.
(Footnote, I recently went back and tried to read a couple of the old J.P. Donleavy books that had so delighted me as a youth, and found them incoherent and unreadable. This has not occured with any other of my old faves, except maybe Farina's "Been Down So Long..." What can this mean?)
posted by Faze at 11:10 AM on August 4, 2008
(Footnote, I recently went back and tried to read a couple of the old J.P. Donleavy books that had so delighted me as a youth, and found them incoherent and unreadable. This has not occured with any other of my old faves, except maybe Farina's "Been Down So Long..." What can this mean?)
posted by Faze at 11:10 AM on August 4, 2008
for those who were wondering "but what does shmegegge think?", I think this:
that language is much like my own, but heard through old stagnant water. it was lovely. I think I'll go see what i can see about Barry Flanagan and J.P. Donleavy.
posted by shmegegge at 11:42 AM on August 4, 2008
that language is much like my own, but heard through old stagnant water. it was lovely. I think I'll go see what i can see about Barry Flanagan and J.P. Donleavy.
posted by shmegegge at 11:42 AM on August 4, 2008
I used to juggle grenades. Impressed the cadets. That's how I lost the use of my eyes. I sculpted for a while. Probably still could. Don't need to see to juggle, eh? I have a sculpter's hands. I could dig my way through a concrete wall with these fingers. Kill a man with just my thumb and pointer finger, don't you know. What's the perfume? Wait, don't tell me. Henry Dunay's Sabi. It's beautiful. Hoo ha.
posted by Astro Zombie at 12:10 PM on August 4, 2008
posted by Astro Zombie at 12:10 PM on August 4, 2008
The Beastly Beatitudes of Balthazar B is "incoherent and unreadable"?! I'm going to pretend you didn't say that! ;)
I know where I am. She lies just up there in the trees. Look down as I walk over her grass. And through the little iron gare in the wall. I come here to say hello and not goodbye. A piece of granite stands tall and plain. Next to another half its size. Two words make your name. And underneath the years that lived your life. Primroses and violets grow here where you lie. You will never go away. See all of you through the tears that cover my eyes. Wind blows in the yew. Soft red berries dropped with a green shadowy seed. The musty smell of boxwood. When you looked at me and I looked back we said our words. It matters only what private things we know and have never spoken. Or will ever speak. Take up the years that come. To carry you with me wherever I go. Face any loneliness. Know I'm not alone. You the only one I ever told about my lost little boy who was my first son. Wish I could blow hoots from the hollow of my hand and make the owls answer back. Tonight I will be in Dublin. From the train through Dundalk. I'll walk across Trinity in the morning. Around its flat green velvet squares. See again as you passed beneath my windows. I'll look from the roadway where your bedroom window was and at the house in which I first heard you speak to me. Never to know all those suffering creatures your hand and voice gave comfort in hospital. Putting bravery in old men in fear of death. And these tears that fall from me, they'll help your grass grow. Goodbye Fitzdare. Goodbye.
posted by Brocktoon at 12:42 PM on August 4, 2008
I know where I am. She lies just up there in the trees. Look down as I walk over her grass. And through the little iron gare in the wall. I come here to say hello and not goodbye. A piece of granite stands tall and plain. Next to another half its size. Two words make your name. And underneath the years that lived your life. Primroses and violets grow here where you lie. You will never go away. See all of you through the tears that cover my eyes. Wind blows in the yew. Soft red berries dropped with a green shadowy seed. The musty smell of boxwood. When you looked at me and I looked back we said our words. It matters only what private things we know and have never spoken. Or will ever speak. Take up the years that come. To carry you with me wherever I go. Face any loneliness. Know I'm not alone. You the only one I ever told about my lost little boy who was my first son. Wish I could blow hoots from the hollow of my hand and make the owls answer back. Tonight I will be in Dublin. From the train through Dundalk. I'll walk across Trinity in the morning. Around its flat green velvet squares. See again as you passed beneath my windows. I'll look from the roadway where your bedroom window was and at the house in which I first heard you speak to me. Never to know all those suffering creatures your hand and voice gave comfort in hospital. Putting bravery in old men in fear of death. And these tears that fall from me, they'll help your grass grow. Goodbye Fitzdare. Goodbye.
posted by Brocktoon at 12:42 PM on August 4, 2008
« Older What is the ideal woman of the moment? | The Colors of Decay Newer »
This thread has been archived and is closed to new comments
This is exactly why I am always polite to sculptors. Most of them seem like very nice people, but you never know.
posted by languagehat at 10:46 AM on August 4, 2008