Monday, October 25, 2010

Machine: a reply to Robert Willson


Robert, the moment crumbles to dust almost as quickly as I can imagine it and write it. But you, in an instant, brand its essence onto my mind, as if my own flesh and hide were being burned. What is a reflection? Does it, as science suggests, die when its medium or source is removed? Or is it another form of memory, with a life of its own? There need not be an answer. But I’m grateful for the questions you have posed.



10.25.2010 #2
10.25.2010 #1 (poem)

6 comments:

jasmin said...

lieber William, die Hoffnung ist nicht gestorben, weißt du sie kann nicht sterben, sie darf nicht sterben, in lieben Gedanken Jasmin...

William Michaelian said...

Thank you, Jasmin. Indeed, such questions themselves prove that hope is alive. And I certainly don’t mean to suggest otherwise. It seems, too, that words are a kind of mirror.

Woman in a Window said...

All from an image. And I got something entirely different. And so it goes, the blessing of this community, the blessing of art.

xo
erin

William Michaelian said...

Yes. We’re sourdoughs, Erin, devouring what nourishes us and passing the culture along.

all ways 11 o'clock said...

Thank you William as your work and others makes me curious as a child with a desire to know.

William Michaelian said...

Thank you, Robert. So many of your pictures strike me as a kind of revelation or awakening; you should interpret my silence in front of them as awe.