Sunday, June 5, 2016

Basement: Philadelphia Museum of Art: Summer 1996



for Ernestine Rubin

Art, it would seem, is a nice way of
saying that everything resides in hell—
the pictures are anguish— the negatives,
hiding somewhere, ecstasy.

Pictures mounted on plain grey walls.
Slow viewers puzzle themselves; sashay,
bug-like, into corners. I am not,
unfortunately, basking in the open glow of
abundant creativity, but am thrashed
by a sense of impotence. How do I
let the images in? The blonde over
there: does she do penance by giving
head? Fractions, pinpoints of light distill
from low ceiling— footsteps, cacophony
of breaths being drawn. Eyes of an
artist, mine of a bloodhound. Staid types sniff the walls.

Art, it would seem, is
a nice way of saying that everyone
resides in hell— the people are anguish—
the angels, hiding somewhere, ecstasy.


From Tumblr: Two from PSU, State College, '96-'98


Adam Fieled (State College, Pennsylvania): from Answered Prayers and Willard Preachers

ROOM 510, ATHERTON HILTON

Lightning illuminates the pale sky; rain
on the leaves sounds like waves. Snakes
rattle across the Earth, hold themselves
erect under the onslaught. Your body,
Jennifer— lax against a pillow, aghast
at the finality of clouds. Lampshades
are tan mushrooms— wallets stuffed
with obscure currencies. Some stray
Ruth may (later) come to wound me.
Swim for your life, junk-in-the-veins
Narcissus— Rimbaud is just a button
to push, guided by voices or not. Our
face of passion is one we had before we were born.

© Adam Fieled 1996

Saturday, June 4, 2016

Nefertiti (College Avenue, State College, September 1996)



To the blonde, cigarette dangling from
red lips in the blue Chevette— in a past life
I courted you in Egypt, we danced, your
neck like Nefertiti’s as furiously we made
love— lived together, also, in Pompeii, & your
volcanic thighs took me sky-high. Now, here
you are again, pale cool flat diamond
eyed, I am ravishing you, we never think
of New Jersey, murder, mortuaries, what’s
ugly, fleeting, as the light goes green it
is all in the set-ness of your face forever—
frissons, fireworks in someone’s mind.

Kendall Jenner: Breathing, No


Friday, June 3, 2016

Intro: Photography Presentation: Jeremy Eric Tenenbaum: October 6, 2006: Olde City Philadelphia



Imagine a man. He dips a finger into the filthy Schuylkill & comes up Adonis. Or, a Manayunk side street finds him staring Acteon-like at some omnipotent Diana, teeth gleaming in the crepuscular atmosphere.

Imagine a man. He is the heart & soul of the soulful, beer-soaked bar, reveling in quips his wits are too fast for, taking in bitter, ham-fisted stories of love lost, found & regained. This is a man who can listen.

Jeremy. Imagine a Jeremy. This man for whom art is like air, for whom humanity is beyond cruelty & joking, for whom the savor of the gold-speckled past is equaled only by future nights staring at diaphanously gowned girls.

Imagine Jeremy with a camera. This is a kind of sex for him, a kind of yoga, a yoking of the creative imagination to the fact of our flesh, that may sag, or glisten, or sag and glisten, or, having sagged, suddenly glisten under the camera’s eye.

Imagine pictures. They are limned with the light of soul-baring honesty, the rawest form of candor, the privileged position of an unprivileged spectator—that is, a sensitive spectator sans imposing ego. These are pictures of people, unmediated by art.

Only it is art. The artifice is all in the angles—how a smile reveals a desire to be fondled, how a pose means such-and-such knows everything there is to know about Siouxsie & the Banshees, or the Cure, or the Fixx.

Get a fix here. A fix of real human beings being real in real pictures taken by a real man at the height of his “seeing” power; a fix of sensuality for people with brains, who can unite the signifier, in all its’ nuanced glory, with the signified.

There is no disjuncture here between sign and meaning. These people speak for themselves, just by being naked, or half-naked, or a bit naked. It is the dialect of desire that powers streetcars & other vehicles.

Let this show be a vehicle for you. When it’s over, you will find yourself sodden with the musty soak of the filthy Schuylkill. You will have seen Diana, without having to become a stag; the pictures will “stag” you, right where you come. Home.

Thursday, June 2, 2016

Adam Fieled (State College, Pennsylvania): "Song for Maria"

My scarlet letter let you in
     We rallied on our separate beds
         The way to blue was flushed with ice
              Your tongue possesses everything

(lighten my,
watch my,
  blow my)

                        In any case the case is closed
                  We walk the streets, a trackless train
              My verdant prayer is your own skin
         I can't believe I'm free again

Relax—

Ice yr drink—

Think—

Pursue a purpose, lost in flame
     Become the scum you dote on, crab,
          The sky, the ground, the square you are
                The realm of flesh is one lone purge...

mercy        mercy      mercy
     mercy                mercy

© Adam Fieled 1998