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Author: texassexgoddess (Page 1 of 2)
Elijah Blumov
Community Arts Questions
- I chose to report upon the Eastern Orthodox architecture in Astoria for a variety of reasons—Firstly, I am and always have been entranced by the entire historical swath of Greek culture, and indeed I am heartily considering pursuing a Classics major. I am likewise interested in the history of Byzantium and Anatolia, where this architectural style emerged in the medieval period. The sheer volume of cultural clashes, blends and diffusions between East and West which occurred on the shores of the Bosphorus Strait would remain unprecedented until the 20th century, and the cultural and religious practices which arose in the wake of this motley history are entrancing subjects for me. Of particular note is the religious music of the Byzantine Orthodoxy—in my opinion, it is some of the most highly spiritual and beautiful music of all time, and perhaps my favorite style of choral music. It was with these interests in mind, as well as prior visits to the Astoria neighborhood having been lovely, which spurred my decision to zero in on it for this project. I am not ethnically Greek whatsoever (though my middle name is Perseus) but I have long identified with Grecian ancient deities, customs, and ideologies, and pursued knowledge of them and their histories. By this token, though I am an outsider, I believe I am well-versed enough to explore this milieu with a familiar eye.
- In preparation for my presentation, I did some online research on the history of Byzantine architecture and of the Astoria neighborhood in order to construct a Power Point. While doing this, I of course listened to some Greek Orthodox liturgy, which I shall no doubt share with the class. I abstained from visiting the neighborhood itself for two reasons—Firstly, it’s incredibly inconvenient to get to from where I live, and more importantly, I have actually already explored a couple of the Greek churches on a pair of previous ventures– Once when I was getting headshots from a photographer in Astoria (some of the photos taken were actually on the premises of the St. Catherine’s Church), and once when I went on a date with a Greek girl, who showed me around a smaller venue. These excursions were relatively recently, so I decided it was sufficient to rely on this knowledge. Indeed, these initial experiences were what directly inspired me to pursue this topic, so taken was I with the beauty I beheld.
- Frankly, I didn’t reach any kind of academic catharsis doing this project—I chose the subject I did because I’m interested in it, and since I’m interested in it, I already had prior knowledge of it. However, there were certainly historical tidbits in my research which I found intriguing, and it’s candy for the eyes to look at so many gorgeous holy places, from medieval Turkey to present day Astoria. I was aware of the signature nature of the Greek presence in Astoria, but was unaware of the historical migration in question, so this subject was refreshing to research.
4. I believe the most obvious and pressing limitations I had for this project were dually my lack of architectural knowledge and my inability to speak Greek. If the latter were reversed, it would have facilitated my ability to do an in-depth study of the Orthodox liturgy as well as to interview the Greek elders and newly arrived immigrants. If the former were rectified, I might be able to be more comprehensive, articulate, and learned in my explanation of architectural characteristics and diffusions. Doing this project enthuses my spirit to return to Astoria and explore the churches further (as well as enjoy some incredible Greek food) and more critically, to visit Greece and Istanbul so that I might sojourn to the original Byzantine sites and immerse myself in an intricately rich culture. In the latter especially, the spirits of the Greeks, Persians, Romans, Byzantines, Varangians, Arabs and Turks all lie in wait of discovery, shimmering grandly within its hallowed walls.
Follow this link:
http://bitstrips.com/r/61LNF
Elijah Blumofe
Museum Assignment: Look and Look Again
For this academic expedition, I traveled to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, wherein I decided to examine the works of Venetian Neo-Classical sculptor Antonio Canova. I made this decision for a myriad of reasons, foremost being that my middle name is Perseus, and perhaps Canova’s most famous work is his iconic “Perseus With the Head of Medusa”, a sculpture which has captured my imagination since childhood, and which my mother was fond of showing to me whenever she took me to the Met as a child. Furthermore, I find sculpture to be the most engaging visual artistic medium, and I am partial to Classical style, as well as Greek subjects.
I am delighted and inspired by idealistic depictions of the human body, and Canova, whose oeuvre consists almost entirely of Greek mythological characters, has these in spades. Looking at his work, it entrances me how he is able to capture the physical glory and emotional dynamism of a moment, even absent the dramatic poses and florid detail of his Baroque predecessors. This aura of intensity is especially present in “Perseus”, as well as another of his famous works, “Cupid and Psyche”. I was pleasantly surprised to see this latter piece, because although it was familiar to me, I hadn’t known previously that it was a Canova. This realization makes me suspect that my parents are enthusiasts of his, as my sister’s middle name is in fact, Psyche. Noting this, my relationship to Canova’s work quickly turned from mere piqued interest to embrace an element of the sentimental. After viewing other works, including the cocky “Paris”, the coy “Reclining Naiad” and the coquettish “Venus Italica”, it struck me not only the powerful sexual tension Canova was able to evoke with mere marble, but the emotional breadth of his work—Comparing the playfulness of any of these three aforementioned pieces with the forbidden love and dire infatuation exhibited in “Cupid and Psyche”, or the proud exhilaration of “Perseus”, it becomes clear that Canova cared deeply for storytelling, as well as presenting a variety of contexts to display a celebration of hot-blooded youthfulness. I left the Met with thoughts of gods and mortals, epic deeds, courageous bloodlust and slinking temptresses, both excited and informed by what I had seen. Such is, in my view, the proper and aspired to effect of Art.
In my research I was taken with the sheer prestige bestowed upon Canova—He is overwhelmingly seen as the finest artist of the Neoclassical school, and was often employed by the Vatican as well as the European high nobility (including Holy Roman Emperors and Napoleon) during his lifetime. Reading about this, it strikes me how the profile of the visual artist has changed over the centuries. In our modern era, there are indeed artists of prestige, commissioned by the wealthy for great sums of money, but this prestige is confined to exclusive circles… cults of celebrity no longer seem to exist, at least on a massive scale. There have been notable exceptions (Banksy, Warhol, Pollock, Basquiat), but where sculpture and traditional art is concerned, priority seems to have been all but extinguished.
Canova’s oeuvre contains a distinguishable number of tombs, cenotaphs and mausoleums, which I find to be of particular interest. To me, Death is perhaps the worthiest subject of art that exists. It’s apparent that Canova felt likewise, yet whether this was due to philosophical disposition or sacred duty I can only wonder. The culmination of this tendency was Canova’s magnum opus, the Tempio Canoviano church in Passagno, which was built dually to be a monument to the idea of Religion as well as his own museum/mausoleum. I have often fantasized about constructing my own mausoleum, and to see that someone actually has is fascinating to me. The presence of this prominent morbid track record gives me further respect and interest towards Canova and his work.
All in all, Canova’s dynamic interests in portraying both the vigorously alive and the somberly deceased, embracing serenity, lust, and violence, are synchronized mightily with my own artistic sensibilities. His cocktail assortment of religious fervor and mythological glory speaks to a man not only of prodigious talent, but also of noble and richly crafted vision.
Elijah Blumofe
Cenotaph
When I was very young, my mother first took me to the White City.
The pride of our race, that gleaming pearl in the sand.
Marble gates ablaze in the desert sunlight, blinding in glory, bound either side by gilded lamassus, ferocious in their dignity.
Paralyzed by sensation, past ivory cobblestones and sandstone titans, my mother guided me, like some eudaemon, into the vast epicenter, the city square.
And there, my child’s eyes beheld the monolith.
A pale, terrible obelisk, so large as to darken the sky.
Shrouded in its shadow, fear then took hold of my heart.
Engraved upon it were countless scratches, innumerable scars.
Names.
Twisting perversely, etched over one another, crudely borne, chiseled with the trembling hands of fresh grief.
Memoriam is left to those who cherished most, she said.
Those left behind.
Gazing upon this sea of souls, my lip began to quiver, and my eyes welled.
For I knew, drowned among these, were letters that formed the name of my father.
Immortality. Obscurity…
In the shimmering heat, the stone seemed to bleed.
Above these mutilations, where no widow could reach, were carved those words the State had seen fit to display with some decorum.
Do you see? My mother gestured to the same.
Yes, mother.
Read to me.
I summoned strength to my small voice, and began:
Arise, O Ares! Look hard upon your children as their bones meld with the land.
Look hard, and see your land fed with glory.
Gaze upon us with pride, God of War,
for we are your first sons.
Masters of the spear, yet you were ever master of our fate.
Death was never our king, for we spat in the face of Death.
Never did his mortal whip, the one they call Fear, compel us into slavery!
Rather, O God, was your spirit ever within us, and so did we become immortal.
Our names bleed from the wounds of the fallen, condemned to the dust.
Our names bleed from the eyes of our women, bent, but never broken.
Our names bleed from the mountains, from the rivers, from the shimmering sea that was our greatest joy to look upon in life.
Our names bleed from the songs of our Homeland, ever attuned to glory.
Our names bleed from the mouths of our children, who shall whisper our names in gratitude and awe.
Our names bleed from the minds of our comrades, those who yet survive, yet take our phantoms with them.
Our names bleed from this stone, and thus does blood, cheap as dirt, common as water, become sacred, the elixir of eternal life.
Remember us, O Ares, for it is men such as us who allow you to exist.
Remember us, and the enemies of our children shall tremble.
And you, countrymen, as you tread upon hallowed soil, look to the sky, and remember.
From paradise we shall meet your gaze, with love and honor always.
I felt my mother’s hand.
Time to leave.
Vigil
Sometimes, always in the dead of night, I leap out of bed and through my window.
As I land, I feel the cool grass beneath my bare feet, blooming with infant dew.
Refreshed, I begin to run.
Though there may be freezing rain, and nettles which pierce the sole, I am oblivious.
I run until I reach the gates.
I open them, cautiously, quietly as I can.
And run further still.
Until I reach my tomb.
There, a monolithic slab of marble serves as archway, and etched along its face, lunar silhouettes dance in dark recesses, where the letters of my epitaph are freshly writ, deep in the stone.
They read:
Here lies he who thought he was yours.
I shudder, enter, and descend.
Down down down into the catacombs of my life.
There are no torches, but I am accustomed to this particular darkness.
Darkness is not tangible—it is merely the absence of light.
Absence.
In my feverish trance, I pass many corpses along the way.
Some fresh and stinking, others, frail yellow bones, poised to be dust.
I walk, and every step reverberates mountainously within my skull, echoing like that ghost of the sea which haunts all marooned empty shells.
There are many doors down here, but they are locked.
You see, I lost those keys a long time ago.
Beyond these doors are more doors, I know.
And rooms I shall never see.
As I proceed, dust thickens the air, and I begin to wheeze.
My sleepless eyes water, until I am nearly blind.
Yet on I press, for I must see it.
I am possessed, I know, by that most powerful of necromancers.
Finally, at wit’s end, I reach the passage’s conclusion.
A rounded chamber, with a small wooden table.
On the table, a solitary candle.
This candle is for thee.
With trembling fingers, I light it, and for a brief moment, my world is illuminated.
I can feel your warmth.
I smile as I have not smiled in a lifetime.
I am alive.
I reach for the final door, and open it.
Instantly, I am flooded with inexplicable terror.
A draught wails through the tunnel.
The door bolts shut, and you are extinguished.
And here I am, imprisoned in true darkness, and I cannot see a thing.
I need you.
I sink to the ground, and this time, my tears are real.
Elijah Blumofe
I am the dust rising from a thousand burning hooves.
I am the thunder, rolling beneath a parched desert sky, howling for blood.
I am the catalyst, winds of change, sent from the edge of existence to alight the world in flames.
I am the savior, master of exodus, emerging from darkness triumphant.
I am the harbinger of glory.
I am the bringer of death.
I am a proud father, surveying my endless progeny, orphans once, now gods among men.
I am a monolith, a thousand voices, burning with terrible rage.
I am a shepherd, turning my flock to the West.
I am the ocean tide, brimming on the precipice of destruction.
I am the one whose name shall be spoken in whispers unto eternity.
I am he who buckles the knees of nations.
I am he who baths in the tears of the world.
I am progress.
I am unity.
I am Khan.
Elijah Blumov
Annotated Bibliography: Jimi Hendrix
James Marshall Hendrix, better known as Jimi Hendrix, could easily be argued to be the most influential musical figure of the late 20th century, if not of its entirety. As a guitar player, he was innovative beyond the scope of any predecessors or peers, and with a manic emphasis on high gain, volume, feedback, and distortion effects, transformed the landscape of electrical music, carving out a new, post-British Invasion epoch of modern musical expression. Bringing new life to both new and old traditions, Hendrix engulfed, revolutionized, and anticipated a dizzying breadth of genres, becoming an instrumental and critical influence on Blues, Psychedelia, Hard Rock, Progressive Rock, Funk, Avant Garde, Pop, and Heavy Metal. At the peak of his powers, Hendrix was an American and global phenomenon, and, during the latter half of his career, the highest paid musician in the world.
Furthermore, Hendrix embodied and transmuted the zeitgeist of the Vietnam War era perhaps better than any other musician of his time, most famously exemplified during his headlining performance at Woodstock, where his controversial rendition of the Star Spangled Banner, which for many conjured images of a troubled, war-torn America (or, alternatively, the sheer glory of the American heritage), became lauded as a pivotal moment in musical and political history, the New York Post even going so far to say that it was the “single greatest moment of the sixties”. Tragically, after producing only three albums, Hendrix died at the tender age of 27 after overdosing on barbiturates. Such an early death however, served to function as a form of martyrdom in the eyes of the American public, and his iconic status was sealed, facilitating his ascension to become forever exalted alongside Elvis Presley as the American patron saint of Rock ‘n Roll.
Elijah Blumofe
Original Poem: “Death” by Kwame Dawes
Inspired Poem: “The Visitor” by Elijah Blumov
Upon reading “Death” by Kwame Dawes, I was immediately fascinated. It is a piece which is dualistically macabre and inspirational, full of dark brooding and bemused swagger. The premise of the piece is that, if we are able to trivialize death, vis a vis jading ourselves to it through action and understanding of the past, we may be able to relinquish our own fear of death, the act of which imbues one with a terrifying fearlessness and confidence which can leave others impressionable and allow for the facilitated acquisition of one’s objectives. Paradoxically, treating life as meaningless allows one the license to lead life as fulfilling as possible, the notion of which I find quite interesting. In the extreme case of this poem, the author does not take his epiphany regarding the objective nature of death (spurred by the passing of his dog) kindly, and proceeds to not only become a nihilist, but a murderer himself, a process which is therapeutic in the sense that it allows him to construct the aforementioned attitude regarding ambivalence to death. The poem seems also to have some metaphorical racial overtones, but these I will choose to ignore, because I believe them to initiate a separate topic, one which, however valid, did not leave as hearty an impression on me.
My own poem, “The Visitor”, deals with the same concept of mortal fear, albeit with a different pattern of reasoning and situational description. In it, the protagonist realizes that, by eschewing any fear of death, he may better appreciate the life he has led up to this point, recognize his accomplishments and place in the world, and thus, may live the rest of his life in peace.
The Visitor
Death knocks at my door on January 10th, 2060 A.D., 8:37 pm.
I am 65 years old.
It is the eve of my birthday, and I have with me a multitude of guests, all in the throes of merriment.
Then, a knock.
Fighting back tears of drunken mirth, I stumble to the door cheerily.
Pray, who is it?
An old friend.
Any ominous tone lost on me, I fling aside the door, hungry for another long-lost spectre of my past whom I might reclaim in hearty embrace.
And there he stands.
He looks quite ordinary, to be honest. Indeed thin, but hardly skeletal.
His black robes look mundanely judicial.
His face does trouble me however, for it is a face I have seen countless time in my life…
Hurrying to work.
Ringing up my order.
Begging for change.
Driving a cab I had missed one time, four or so years ago.
Only at this moment however, is this registered.
Is this the Blumov residence?
Yes.
He glides in as only an angel can. A hush falls over my humble gathering.
Do you know who I am?
Yes.
I am paralyzed. My blood shivers glacially, and time stops. In these few seconds, staring at him in rapture, the sickening realization has come upon me like an unexpected wave, sending the eyes and throat awash with salt, choking, the salt of a hundred thousand of years of fresh grief.
Do you fear me?
I harken to my youth, those fearless times. Contempt for death was the highest order of manliness, or so I had read. Would I, at that time, have spat in this little man’s face?
Odin did not fear death. Leonidas did not fear death. Why should I?
Such would have been my thesis.
Then again, did anyone ever adore Odin the way my family adores me?
It is not for me that I would weep, that I would shiver with dread.
Yet the seasons have changed.
My mother and father lie beneath the earth, transformed beyond recognition.
They live in soil, and memory.
My siblings are getting on as well… my loss would hurt them to be sure, but not devastatingly so.
It seems, logically, we should get more fearless with age, as our bonds wither, and our bodies deteriorate.
For fear, it occurs to me now, is present only in those who have something of value to lose.
And the more I think about it, the more I realize how I would have cowered before this man, all those years ago, inundated as I was with blessing, with possibility.
For even an iron resolve may break under the sheer weight of love, love being synonymous with the fear of loss.
Now however? Now I am truly a king, for my lands are parched, my spoils pillaged. I am at no mercy known to the world.
I do not fear you.
The man in black knows this is truth, for he is impossible to lie to.
Death places a crown upon my head.
Relief floods my body.
I am ready, I say.
Death stares at me oddly, and chuckles.
Walk henceforth with this crown, and see yourself bloom with life once more. Tend to the seeds you have sown, for you have not reaped all just yet.
I am bewildered.
If not to take me, why have you come then?
To give you the gift of life.
Death laughs once more, and swirls through the open door, back into the night.
Elijah Blumov
The Valley of Astonishment
Elements of Theatre: Music
Music plays an integral and involved role in this piece, so much so that the play itself could arguably be called musical performance art; of the five performers, two of them are primarily musical accompaniment, one a pianist/accordionist and the other playing a chordophone and various idiophones. In the show, music serves four distinct purposes: firstly, as an ambient soundtrack to suggest mood and add emphasis to various scenes and monologues (of note: The Oriental passage played during the Phoenix monologue). Secondly, as an indicator of the passage of time, performed as interludes between scenes, or within a scene to condense the narrative, counterpuntal to some sort of pantomime (as when Sammy recites dozens of words). Thirdly, music is utilized as a window into the thoughts of the synesthete characters, giving the audience a glimpse into their melodic minds and the thought patterns and emotions they exhibit as told through their musical inner consciousness (such as in the monologue about the beloved bassist, or when Sammy becomes frustrated/overwhelmed and the music reacts accordingly). Lastly, music is used physically within the confines of the narrative (such as when one character listens to the radio, or when another plays piano for the doctors).