New Day A long time has passed and no one asked me why the paths of loneliness lead everywhere when the dreams gain weight and becomes descending mass of neutrinos we are absent and grope on the presence to change into something deep and unapproachable like the light in the flash of a lightning bolt everything will take place a finger will turn the page behind many coiled realities hides the invisible history of the constant end rivers that flow into other rivers oceans, stoas of other oceans primeval souls climb from pages of books flashing onto the blossom of meanings the vibrating manifestation of the past and the insinuation of the present perhaps are the future’s interchanging plan so, we can reach here oaring in a bubble many inexperienced listening to silence.
That man, who stuttered, wanted to say something but I was in a hurry; he stuttered something up to my door. That man wanted to talk to me and I was in a hurry.
Maybe they were still asleep. Opening the door, she walked cautiously down the hall but picked up her pace when she heard muted voices from the kitchen. Moe and Ken sat at the table, fully dressed and with mugs of coffee in front of them. They turned towards her. “Good morning, kiddo. You had a good long sleep.” Moe jumped to her feet. “Okay, first a cup of fresh coffee, then I’ll make your breakfast.” Tyne glanced from one to the other, trying to read their expressions. But Moe, in spite of dark patches under her eyes, exhibited her old cheerful demeanor. Ken was smiling. “Morning, Tyne,” he said as he got up and pulled a chair out from the table. Tyne hesitated. Did they have something to tell her? Were they acting normal to lessen the shock? Before she allowed herself to sit down and accept the coffee Moe handed her, she had to know. “Have you heard anything?” Her voice was little more than a whisper. Both of them shook their heads, and Ken said, “It’s a little soon. I’m sure they’ll be in touch with us today.” Tyne’s sigh was louder than she expected. “I know, I’m being overanxious.” She sat down across from Ken and stirred cream into her coffee. “I didn’t mean to sleep so long. I told Bobby and Ronald I’d be back to the see them this morning, at least for a few minutes.” “You’re too late, kiddo,” Moe said as she broke eggs into a bowl. “Aunt Millie left over an hour ago for the hospital. The boys are well looked after. Right now you’re going to have breakfast.” “Thanks Moe, but I’m not really hungry.” Tyne took a sip of coffee. “I don’t think I can eat.” “Nevertheless,” Moe said as she whisked the eggs, “you’re going to try. And I’m going to stand over you until you do.” Tyne had to smile. “Do you realize you’re beginning to sound more and more like Aunt Millie?” In spite of her assertion that she was not hungry, Tyne ate most of the scrambled eggs and toast Moe placed before her…
Newspaper He opened the newspaper under the light of the kitchen he seek to brighten the news of last night’s muggings, break ins, murders. After he took a deep breath knowing he contributed in beautifying the world of this ugly modern city he put the coffee pot on as if he had to go to war again and needed his morning fix
five Twentieth century after zero intellect is rounded dangerously here comes death of every existing artistic style the reign of emotions battles the classic the modern battles the classic furiously the natural observes the deconstruction that has been planted in the newborn-subconscious the classic resists the postmodern Dali embraces Lorca timidly
Five Painters If you were ignorant, you could think they were civil servants. Colorless, at the corner of the restaurant they chit-chat about current affairs. Nothing of their movements or words reveal anything about art. Nothing, other than the smile, I think, and the glance of the oldest one. He just finished, tonight, three hours ago, his most important composition. He senses that it could be the crown achievement of his work now that time is pressing on him. He stays quiet, he only listens. He contemplates the opening night the comments of his peers the people’s simpleminded words. The thorny crown of the critics and later the dissertations, monographs, writings and further down the road a very honorary spot on the museum wall. He contemplates, happy with what he has left behind, that some might imagine his unlimited delight during that night, when he placed his last brushstroke on the canvas. He could explain, with such euphoric euphoria, his intentions and achievements to his friends who would be listening with awe. Intentions and success of the Art, not colorless gossip and banal words that the ignorant always like to repeat.
He was in his room with his mind wandering to faraway lands where he might have to go for a while. Yes, he had to accept the offer. This position was going to be his post. Even if he had to go abroad, it would be just for a while. He liked the idea of being around the young people who could be moulded to his way of thinking. He could be a craftsman who would take soil and plant it into a pot of his liking. Yes, this was a position he had to accept. “Everything will go the way it was supposed to go,” Hermes told himself. Cleaned and dressed, he went downstairs. His aunt was there. “Ready to go, my boy?” “Yes, dear Aunt. I shouldn’t be late.” “You are right. Go then and try to learn everything, so you know what you will get yourself into, conditions, demands, everything, okay? Remember, nobody these days offers you something without expecting something in return.” “Yes, I know, I will find out the best I can. Don’t worry. I’ll tell you all about it when I’m back.” “Are you going to be late?” “No, and I’m not going to Eleni’s after this, if that’s what you are saying,” he answered and went to the door. Half an hour later, he was at the doorstep of the dean’s house and rang the bell. The dean himself opened. “Good evening, Dean.” “Good evening, Hermes. Come in.” He walked in and sat down in an armchair. The house was rich, lordly, with thick carpets and furniture of a conservative style. All kinds of paintings hung on the walls. Some of them were classic styled and coloured pieces, although a couple of them looked modern, especially one, an abstract painting, flooded by an overhead light, looked very impressive as it caught Hermes’ glance, which focused on it for a few extra seconds, not to be missed by the dean, who smiled and, sitting across from Hermes, asked,
The Minister was a Maritimer and his open, neighbourly manner delighted Ken. Their meeting resulted in the eminently successful 1975 exhibition of Ken’s Arctic work in Spain, and in the fashion of one domino tipping the next, the first Canadian exhibition of the Arctic works was triggered. Once the unusual, haunting images had been seen, and the origin of the work was explained, all the right people wanted to own one of the paintings, and gallery owners were clamouring to exhibit them. Best of all, to Ken’s mind, it had been accomplished without cost to the Canadian government beyond their public support and a few phone calls. This was the beginning of the long road to the national introduction of the Inuit, their stories and experiences, and the growing acceptance of the symbol of the Inukshuk as a uniquely Canadian icon. It could be argued this was the pivotal step that led to the Inukshuk becoming the distinctive symbol of welcome for the 2010 Vancouver Olympics. The Arctic paintings sold by the hundreds, nationally and internationally, to the point where, a quarter of a century later, Canadian Art galleries were objecting to anything other than ice, snow and Inuksuit displaying the Kirkby name. It was ironic. ~~ Despite the history, the lack of outlets for Kirkby’s west coast images promised a lean period ahead for the painter. He decided to force the issue by withholding all of his art until the galleries accepted his new works. The businessmen amongst the owners appreciated the fact that a painting with the Kirkby signature translated into a certain sale, and Ken’s experience had proven they’d come around when their stock was depleted. He continued to work late, the bright light a beacon, spilling warmth from the loft window. And then, one night he returned to the cottage to find the message light blinking on the answering machine. That was the start. While gallery managers still hopefully requested the Arctic series, they agreed to hang work from his Vancouver Island series. Happily, new customers liked it and previous Kirkby collectors were intrigued. Ten years since that breakthrough, his work is more popular than ever and…
Emptiness Ripped curtain with one leaning shoulder. The house has been empty for days. The mirror is flat in its denial to reflect emptiness, or the yellow blanket, or the memory of that body enlarged in the moonlight of that August, touch after touching the flesh, nails, teeth, lust, the red. The flat of the mirror, nothing. Only the nails in the wall, from fallen-off pictures, still gloriously, insist on being a little golden from the last reflection of the twilight, to appear in a second depth, always expecting to hang an umbrella, a hat, a wreath or two carton wings you had put on that busy night among the crowds, and you were raised towards the balcony of the tower, where they lit the colourful fireworks over the metal coffin.
History’s Omission Oen he went down to the basement or climbed up to the attic, ordinary things, of course, but he had different opinion and he was always regretful, until the doctor gave him an old pyjama, gesture that remained, alas, in the shadow of history because he never wore it but he held it so tightly on him and as it occasionally occurs, suddenly, at night in the small garden.
Manolis Aligizakis 