Tuesday, October 28, 2008

A Kind of Solace

One reason I take pictures of graffiti I like is that it just doesn't last. Most pieces don't wind up on the walls of movie stars, but get painted over or scratched out. A week or two after I found this homage to Karel Gott and vegetarianism, someone took a big stick to it. Last time I walked by more of the print had disappeared.

I borrowed the idea of a postcard poem from Lucy, who is usually found at Box Elder. My postcard is more statement than song though.

10 comments:

Zhoen said...

We are here, we are here.

The whos, whosville.

Eleanor said...

Postcard poems! Postcard poems! The best, most exciting idea EVER! Thanks for the link to Lucy...very inspiring.

Jennifer said...

Love this. Do you know the Postal Poetry dot org site? Check it out - you should send this!

Jennifer said...

Duh. I clicked through the Box Elder line not the "Lucy" link. Ignore above comment.

Julia said...

I do know about the postal poetry site, but was shy about submitting it. Thanks for the encouragement!

Julia said...

Eleanor, let me know when your postcard is up!

Julia said...

Zhoen, the Whos have it!

Tommy Williams said...

Synchronicity is a funny thing. I was just reading some of John Rosenthal's writing about Eugene Atget (scroll down nearly to the bottom):

Atget's photographs were, at their deepest level, a response to the modern condition of impermanence. Why else spend so much time compiling a visual record of all those timeworn things that would soon disappear - signs of intimate life whose import wouldn't be deciphered until it was too late? I thought of those little Parisian vistas that didn't open up into any sort of grandeur; of the chipped and faded paint on the wooden facade of a tavern - a row of wine bottles in the window above three small curtains; the tilting city shacks with cracked masonry; the patchwork skylines of unremarkable neighborhoods; wooden wagons parked at the end of cobblestone alleys, hand-crafted stair railings. Atget must have known that if he didn't hurry, if he didn't hit the streets before dawn, Old Paris and its ancient neighborhood intimacies would be gone, along with the bricabrac dealers, the flower-sellers, the fried fish shops, and the small craftsmen. He must have heard the rushing of time; and it must have sounded like the beginning of a stampede.

Lucy said...

This is really good. Thanks for the link.

Try Postal Poetry, it's new and fresh and very open...

Julia said...

Tommy, that's it! I feel that way about so much of Prague as we rush into modern Europe and the old facades and little stores disappear.

Thanks Lucy, I will send it in.