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Do you believe there is a distinctive character to Southern Art? If so, this discussion thread is for you, my brothers and sisters. Please post anything- paintings, poems, photography, short prose - it don't matter. Just so it's art that speaks to our heart - the heart of Dixie.
I don't know about their art but while traveling through the south this winter I was told by a gentleman from Alabama that you can say anything you want about anybody as long as you say" Bless their heart" afterwards.... Also another friend from Alabama told me that if a good old boy sees you reading a book he'll say" You think you're better than me don't you?" I think that's art right their, I'll tell you what Bubber, I don't care who you are
I don't know about Southern art, but sometimes I think I was born on the wrong side of the Mason-Dixon Line I think I'd be more suited to life in the south...and I do thoroughly enjoy 70's southern rock.
I knew I was too far north once when I was in a restaurant and told the waitress I would like sweet tea with my meal. She hesitated, and replied, "Well, we have sugar packets and Sweet and Low you can put in it". I didn't know how to respond.
Not about southern art... but..
I lived in Georgia for a time and was standing at a restaurant bar, waiting for a table and talking with some new friends. A gentleman, also waiting for his table, was standing beside me and listening. After a time, I heard him mutter under his breath... "Damn Yankees!"... I started to laugh... looked way up to all 6'++ of him (I am 5') and said..."Excuse me sir, I am not a yankee... I am a Canadian!" He replied, slowly .. stretching out every single word.. "Maaammm..... everything... north... of the ... Mason-Dixon Line.... is a Yankee to me!" and then he laughed... and we all had a delightful evening.
OK, Robert. You might got me beat, or I might got you beat. Here is a case of a case of stolen whiskey which is definitely pre-prohibition. The owner stashed it for his libation liberation during the prohibition. Being Southern, I am too lazy to Google if Pittsburgh, PA is south of the Mason-Dixon line. If it is North, I win; if it is South, you lose. The loser treats the other to a shot of good pre-prohibition rye. (p.s. I'm from Kentucky. Then why don't I like bourbon? I much prefer single-malted Scotch, or blended Canadian whiskey. What is wrong with me? Just another crazy Southerner, I suppose. )
@Robert - Well, I do got a bottle of Scotch purported to be stolen by the Desert Fox Erwin Rommel during WWII. Is that good enough provenance? (I might consider trading it for your 6 bottles of 100 yr old whiskey).
Short answer. The ingredients used; how its aged; how long it's aged; what it is aged in. Yes, it all makes a difference. What really makes the difference is your taste-buds. What tickles your taste buds is the best there is.
hmmm... Jenny, You are so right. We have the Morris Museum of Art in Augusta, Georgia, which is supposed to be the largest collection of Southern Art in the country. I'll admit, none of it is all that memorable, but maybe that will change in time.
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No disrespect to the originator(s) of the paintings, cut and paste illustrations, drawings Etc.; ( I ), would be tempted to believe who ever created that gallery of pictures suffered from acute Schizophrenia. The continuous flow of surrealistic illustrations found within this link, is bizarre beyond normal imagination. When “you” think there might be a reason behind each creation, it totally dissolves.
I worked with persons with mental disabilities as a counselor for 18 months, in an attempt to create a writing club for them. They were disadvantaged from mild disorders to Schizophrenia (with medical treatment). As writers… my group put many illusions of fantasies on paper I could not attempt to recreate. After 18 months of working with the club members, they reached a plateau that they felt was maximum to their desires. Basically it was due to being requested to rewrite with minor corrections and wording. I never wanted to change the basics of their work... it had to be their thoughts ... not mine. They… as a group, decided they had gone a far as they were interested, to achieve their mission. The director agreed and we ceased further meetings. I learned they were well received when they put on a showing for the public later in the year.
I’m quite certain Rube would have something to say, but for the moment he is not available as I write this. Maybe it is just as well.
Some while back Mark, you wondered how you would write a good number of years
into an epic ballad. The easiest way I know, would be to ask the clock.
It’s been in the family for years... ” I’m certain you’ve heard that statement many times.
It could pertain to a rocking chair, a piece of porcelain, set of china, or even the antique clock on a mantel.
“Oh, if only it could talk,” you say.
(Marking of Time)
With very old hands he fashioned me, from finest Oak in his shop,
Then fitted me with polished brass, and a carved crown for my top.
I was sanded and stained, and rubbed with the purest of oil;
Sureness of the craftsman’s hands, gave me spirit, because of his toil.
Her placed within me a frame, with 2 springs and many gears,
These would endure marking time, throughout a century of years.
For my face, a painted dial, with numbers large and bold,
Then centered squarely in its midst, he placed two hands of gold.
Finally, ‘neath my gears, he placed another coiled spring,
When struck with a tiny mallet, my musical soul would sing.
At last, the moment had come; a pendulum was put in place.
A gentle touch, he gave me life... I at once picked up the pace.
Placing me upon a shelf, amongst clocks of similar kind;
We ticked and tocked in calibrated voices, with one thought in mind.
On the hour we chorused, in a mixture of melodious sound.
To some... this wasn’t enough; they chimed two times each round.
During winter of ‘91, a young lady appeared from blowing cold.
She entered the shop and pointed to me, announcing that I was sold.
For a period of time I was silent; wrapped in paper and securely bound.
No longer did my pendulum swing, or I utter a proclaiming sound.
How long I slept... I do not know, but I awoke amidst laughter and mirth.
Held carefully in strong hands, I was given new life and rebirth.
A mantle had become my station, around me warmth and good will.
I was now part of the Williams Estate, in the big house upon a hill.
In passing of time there were children, two girls and later a boy.
The father loved his daughters dearly, but the boy was his pride and joy.
Seasons continued in harmonious cycles, every winter a candle-lit tree.
Beneath it an abundance of gifts, to be opened by the spirited three.
Then... it was 1915, a year marked with worry and fear.
War raged in a far off land; the boy reached his eighteenth year.
Placed on the mantle beside me, encased in a gold colored frame,
A picture of a young man in uniform, who went to a war not of his blame.
Two more seasons went by, and as always there was a tree,
Happiness was dimmed that Christmas; there were two children... not three.
I counted hours faithfully, and both daughters at length were wed,
The parents were slightly stooped, silver hair adorned their head.
Grandchildren would often mock me, as I chimed in my steadfast way.
I would sing the only song I knew... day after day, after day.
In the year of 1930, as depression gripped the land.
The William’s Estate had to be sold, I was auctioned with everything at hand.
My memory lapsed quite often, sometimes in the middle of my song.
I awoke once for a very short time, something was desperately wrong.
The glass that covered my dial was gone, both of my hands were bent,
My finish was marred, dust filled my case, my voice was woefully spent.
I grieved, preferring darkness, rather than anguish I couldn’t understand.
Humility placed upon me, was by far too great a demand.
Once again, I was obliged to awaken; strength I felt in my soul.
I sang in a voice soft, and clear, I knew at once I was whole.
A writing table was my dominion; a brass lamp stood to my right.
Through a laced-curtained window near, I bathed in warm golden light.
When evening shadows prevailed, and gold melted from the skies,
A young woman sat at my table, sometimes with tears in her eyes.
For hours she conveyed her thoughts... to paper, in a soft lamp glow.
Then folding her hands, she bowed her head, and prayed for her GI Joe.
Seasons continued on a natural course, then during the cold of year,
The man in her life returned; my voice was unusually clear.
Time passed... who better to know, than I with my rhythmic beat.
Suddenly, one night after singing three times, I felt a terrific heat.
This wasn’t day glow; it surpassed any warmth I knew.
From across the room a light flickered; a mixture of red, orange, and blue.
I smoldered, not withstanding heat, and light grew fiercely bright.
Figures scurried about the room... once again there was darkness and night.
Sleep... always sleep after trauma; my features were not pleasant to admire.
I was placed on a closet shelf inactive, for a long time, after the fire.
I dreamed hands caressed my case... strangely, a familiar touch...
Bringing memories of seasons far gone; could I hope to expect so much?
Pains-taking, and slow was the process; loving care removed ugly scars.
Oil like that used by the craftsman, restored beauty where once there were mars.
The face I knew, had been replaced, it’s numbers were metallic and gold.
My gears were cleaned and lightly oiled; I still had my hands of old.
A glass door was fixed in place, my pendulum was urged to swing.
Finally... exactly on the hour, I rejoiced... I could still sing.
1891 is etched on my frame, I’m over a hundred years old.
Do you realize the history I’ve seen, or stories that could be told?
I sit on a mantle ticking, not making any demands.
What’s in my future...who can tell... I have nothing but time on my hands.
This house is a landmark. It is the only house remaining in Old Jacksonborough, the county seat of Screven County, Georgia. The remainder of the town was cursed, and fell into ruin. This house was blessed, and remains standing to this day.
According to history, a curse was placed upon the town by Lorenzo Dow, an itinerant Methodist minister, who was run out of town by the “Rowdies.” After being befriended by Seaborn Goodall, who gave Dow shelter for the night, the minister stopped on the bridge the next morning and asked God to place a curse upon the town with the exception of the Goodall home.
Within 20 years the town had ceased to exist. There were unexplained fires, mysterious winds that ripped roofs from houses, flash floods that emanated from the usually quiet creek. The curse was fulfilled by a variety of means, and the county seat was moved to Sylvania in 1847 after the town was virtually deserted.
Nice B&W work, John Rizutto. I have a particular fondness for the tonal depth of black and white photography that color cannot achieve. For many years, that is all the film I shot.
Very nice work, Michelle. Your contribution here is appreciated, and enjoyed. Feel free to contribute as frequently and as much as you like. Never paid the Green Fairy a visit. Have you? I read where it is making a small comeback in the U.S.