Buffalo Almanack boasts in their first issues they will never fold. Then they folded, except from the web archive where a PDF of issue #9, September 2015, appears, but you have to wait for it to come up.
Of the cover art and four sculptures shown on p. 53-55 (83-86) it says "AE Reiff is a scribe of the social-medicinal history of native southwest plants who operates a bakery near Marfa, TX. These plants are not confined to the Utah canyons and deserts, but range south to Marfa and Big Bend, which impacts the sightings of those mythogmas, the cartoon shadows of the world indexed at encouragementsforsuch.blogspot.com, light and shadow of society and world by day, intercessor by night.
Comment accompanying Praise Jars, that appeared at Buffalo Almanack 9:: “the eye tries to understand what it sees when lamination arches from form, bowed in the firing, so daylight appears between the cracks. It is as if the eye recasts folds and curves to create familiarity to look like something it recognizes. Many of these did fall, implode, collapse in the stretching intended to enhance their lines. Why were they pushed to such extremes? Some can’t raise their hands because they don’t have arms or just stumps for arms in these days. Those who raise hands may not all get them all the way up from the weight or maybe they are prevented. There are all kinds of postures in hands raised, just like there are all kinds of reasons for raising them. Surrender is implied, and praise. Also sacrifice. Those without hands are the most poignant if we imagine we can see the heads and the bodies, as if the arms and hands were wrapped so that armed and militarized security forces thought them ambiguous, concealing something under their cloaks. Beating hearts. Some of these may be considered Protest Jars. These ideas arise in conversation like legends of the unconscious, not yet written exactly, with many sources of vacancy and presence, vacancy of the design and designer. Making by erosion, breakage, eruption, gravity, is vacancy. The world is before us, but the pot remains after. Ask what he will do tomorrow if he had success today. The answer is there is no time and what is done before is during and after.”
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| Flower Guy |
Asking who my teachers are is a good time to repeat the quote from Kierkegaard at the head
of Forms of the Formless: "As soon as a man appears who brings something
of the primitive
along with him, who says “let the world be what it likes, I take my
stand on a primitiveness which I have no intention of changing to meet
with the approval of the world,” at that moment a metamorphosis takes
place in the whole of nature,
the castle that has been lying under a spell for a
hundred years opens and the angels have something to do, and watch
curiously to see what will come of it, because that is their business.
The quote of the Day on 6 July 2015 occurred when I went to pick up pieces at the kiln. One had cracked on refire which I
threw it in the can after being told that the master likes what I do, wants to teach me,
but that if I don't learn then the P C for the Arts is no place for me. As it repeated I much to
learn about handbuilding, that voice urged again and again, who are your teachers? adding helpfully that there are many at the P C of the Arts who
could "help" me.
Teachers teach only their own
viruses and prejudices and the ones they have been taught. I said, I learn from my work but I admire
Gareth Mason and wood fire effects and could have the many notables of that,
especially any non punitive attitude. "He's your
teacher then (Mason)." --"No, I identify his effort, but I am seeking to bring the formless into form and there's nobody who can teach that. I should get a card that reads, Gravity is my muse.
The essence of form is
the nothingness of design and the liquid that flows it. A piece that can be photographed is
inferior. The form and the color are everywhere and always changing.Not that I really believe this, but I want to tear the top from the bottom and make the form represent the detasseled torso spirits of our time. This is meant to stir compassion for the pain of extinction and malformation in the corn field of the world.
Oppositions are much in the air. I sent a beautiful piece of writing, Reset Blue Superstition Farewell Blue Superposition in dialect and dialectic to a place and the editor wanted to know in the rejection if it was a Markov chain-- a random process that undergoes transitions from one state to another. I replied, thinking to make some headway, that it was a Mono-ha, another thing to be ignorant of, and the editor on the other end said I could have said all that in three sentences, a version of which appeared here. Turning that into three sentences is like finding disemodied feet inside boots all along the Washington coast. These resemble accounts of the disembodied heads on the Beltway found here.
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