Salt on the Wall by Christine M Lorenz

Installation view, Dollar Bank Three Rivers Arts Festival, June 2016. Right, Untitled (Salt 8886), 2016. Center, Caroline Record, Exertion 1 and 2, 2016. Left, two works by Lucy Jockel, 2014.

Installation view, Dollar Bank Three Rivers Arts Festival, June 2016. Right, Untitled (Salt 8886), 2016. Center, Caroline Record, Exertion 1 and 2, 2016. Left, two works by Lucy Jockel, 2014.

Photographs from the Salt series have recently been seen in Pittsburgh's Three Rivers Arts Festival juried exhibition (above) and in the all-guild exhibition for the Society for Photographic Education 2016 national conference. 

TEARS AND THE MOON by Christine M Lorenz

 

Maurice Mikkers has been using microscopic imaging to study the salt crystallizations of single tears. At first, he says, he was curious to find whether different patterns would emerge as a result of the tears' particular origins. Would we be able to look at the microscopic patterns and discern whether the subject had been weeping from a broken heart, or merely slicing an onion? ...

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displacement by Christine M Lorenz

Having spent so much time looking at salt blooms through the camera this winter, I can't help but notice them now when I'm walking around. They're abundant in the concrete of parking garages and public stairwells. They're dirty, of course, and blurry, and I wouldn't be tempted to get down and look at them up close. But there it is, that microscopically perfect crystal structure, underfoot. The way the stars are still there, above and beyond, oblivious to any smog or city lights that might obscure them from view. As above, so below.

Duane Michals, My Father Could Walk in the Sky, 1989

Duane Michals, My Father Could Walk in the Sky, 1989

It's technically the first day of spring, and even though we had snow today, it won't be long until we can clean all this winter mess up. Wash down the entryway, put away the boot tray, clean and polish the salt spots off the shoes. It is going to feel good. That stuff gets everywhere.

Salt poetry by Christine M Lorenz

I had fallen out of touch with Three Quarks Daily. (There was no good reason. Their quality hasn't diminished or anything, it's just that there's so much out there, although it really wouldn't hurt if  their site were a little more mobile friendly.) But it looks as if the big blue is looking out for me. Saturday's poem showed up in my Facebook feed, which is peculiar; I can't remember the last time they turned up that way. It is possible that the title of the poem is algorythmically resonating. Last week, Pete Brook published a very nice article in Vantage about my Salt project. You can be sure that I posted that one in Facebook, and some of my friends passed it on. With so much talk of salt in my recent posts, I'm surprised not to be seeing ads for Sur la Table or something in the sidebar. This is much better:

Salt
.

Salt in a wound worth its weight in salt. 
Kiss that picques like fleur de sel de bretagne. 
Love preserved like lemon in salt. 
Preserved lemon, reserved love. 

Salt of you mixes with salt of me. 
Fish baked in salt crust 
Take a hammer to break it 
Like they do in Livorno. 
Non mi ricordo pui di niente 
except the salt sea of Sardinia 
where I swam everyday for summers in a row 
and tasted salt of your forearm 
on the beach in beckoning breeze.
.

by Carolyn Wells
from Alimentum, The Literature of Food

Duane Michals: Three Moments from a talk at the Carnegie Museum of Art by Christine M Lorenz

  1.  Upon taking the stage, Michals introduces himself in an accented falsetto as "Dr. Duanus." Switching to his normal tone of voice, he begins a long tale involving an erection during surgery and something about elevators. It is not clear what the school-aged kids in attendance make of this. It is also not clear whether this was the kind of teachable moment their well-meaning parents were expecting.
     
  2. Elaborating on his "Sidney Sherman" images, he can't quite read off the screen and veers into gobbledygook that makes neither more nor less sense than what he had written. "Not a photographer? Artist who uses photography? If it quacks like a duck. Don't p**s on my leg and tell me it's raining." Later, an audience member asks a particularly well informed question, which for the life of me I can't remember, because his answer was to ask her if she'd like to give him a lap dance. What was that? Taking a Dada turn? Answering the question you wish they had asked? Or just plain old-fashioned misogyny? Sassy or stupid? I mean, I still don't know. 
     
  3. Michals can only get away with being such a dirty old man because he's at the same time such a radiantly blooming romantic. This side is never far away, and never more affecting than in the images and passages from "The House I Once Called Home." They're nostalgic, sardonic, operatic and everyday, all rolled into one. When an audience member asks what kind of camera he likes best, he answers, "You might as well ask Proust what kind of typewriter he prefers."

See the exhibition at the Carnegie Museum of Art. It is phenomenal; Michals is a giant; he is large; he contains multitudes.