Interview with Eleven PDX

Photo by Mercy McNab

I was recently lucky enough to be interviewed by Lucia Ondruskova with Eleven PDX Magazine. It’s always an honor to be able to have a platform to share ideas about art and making and I try to spend a bit of time sitting with the questions. I feel pretty good about this one.

To read the entire interview, click here! 

Print Care

Holiday Printable Card

Here’s a little one sheet print for you to print in case you ordered a package after the shipping deadlines. This way you will have a little something to give your loved one while waiting for the package to arrive. I appreciate all your orders! Thank you for the support and Merry Christmas!

HappyHolidays

The Geology of Norway

I keep coming back to these words about time, space and the body. Poetry has a way of unfolding slowly and releasing new ideas from the same words every time they are read. I wonder about the epoch we are in, and the beauty behind the stirrings that guide our discontented hearts.

 

The Geology of Norway

Poem by Jan Zwicky

But when his last night in Norway came, on 10 December, he greeted it with some
relief writing that it was perfectly possible that he would never return.
-Ray Monk, Ludvig Witenstcin

I have wanted there to be
no story. I have wanted
only facts. At any given point in time
there cannot be a story: time,
except as now, does not exist.
A given point in space
is the compression of desire. The difference
between this point and some place else
is a matter of degree.
This is what compression is: a geologic epoch
rendered to a slice of rock you hold between
your finger and your thumb.
That is a fact.
Stories are mere theories. Theories
are dreams.
A dream
is a carving knife
and the scar it opens in the world
is history.
The process of compression gives off thought.
I have wanted
the geology of light.

 

They tell me despair is a sin.
I believe them.
The hand moving is the hand thinking,
and despair says the body does not exist.
Something to do with bellies and fingers
pressing gut to ebony,
thumbs on keys. Even the hand
writing is the hand thinking. I wanted
speech like Diamond because I knew
that music meant too much.

 

And the fact is, the earth is not a perfect sphere.
And the fact is, it is half-liquid.
And the fact is there are gravitational anomalies. The continents
congeal, and crack, and float like scum on cooling custard.
And the fact is,
the fact is,
and you might think the fact is
we will never get to the bottom of it,
but you would be wrong.
There is a solid inner core.
Fifteen hundred miles across, iron alloy,
the pressure on each square inch of its heart
is nearly thirty thousand tons.
That’s what I wanted:
words made of that: language
that could bend light.

 

Evil is not darkness,
it is noise. It crowds out possibility,
which is to say
it crowds out silence.
History is fill of it, it says
that no one listens.
The sound of wind in leaves,
that was what puzzled me, it took me years
to understand that it was music.
Into silence, a gesture.
A sentence: that it speaks.
This is the mystery: meaning.
Not that these folds of rock exist
but that their beauty, here,
now, nails us to the sky.

The afternoon blue light in the fjord.
Did I tell you
I can understand the villagers?
Being, I have come to think,
is music; or perhaps
it’s silence. I cannot say.
Love, I’m pretty sure,
is light.
You know, it isn’t
what I came for, this bewilderment
by beauty. I came
to find a word, the perfect
syllable, to make it reach up,
grab meaning by the throat
and squeeze it till it spoke to me.
How else to anchor
memory? I wanted language
to hold me still, to be a rock,
I wanted to become a rock myself. I thought
if I could find, and say,
the perfect word, I’d nail
mind to world, and find
release.
The hand moving is the hand thinking:
what I didn’t know: even the continents
have no place but earth.

 

These mountains: once higher
than the Himalayas. Formed in the pucker
of a supercontinental kiss, when Europe
floated south of the equator
and you could hike from Norway
down through Greenland to the peaks
of Appalachia. Before Iceland existed.
Before the Mediterranean
evaporated. Before it filled again.
Before the Rockies were dreamt of.
And before these mountains,
the rock raised in them
chewed by ice that snowed from water
in which no fish had swum. And before that ice,
the almost speechless stretch of the Precambrian:
two billion years, the planet
swathed in air that had no oxygen, the Baltic Shield
older, they think, than life.

 

So I was wrong.
This doesn’t mean
that meaning is a bluff.
History, that’s what
conhses us. Time
is not linear, but it’s real.
The rock beneath us drifts,
and will, until the slow cacophony of magma
cools and locks the continents in place.
Then weather, light,
and gravity
will be the only things that move.

 

And will they understand?
Will they have a name for us? — Those
perfect changeless plains,
those deserts,
the beach that was this mountain,
and the tide that rolls for miles across
its vacant slope.

stay curious

Desknotes 3

make it honest

desk notes christina mrozik Find me encouraging? Print me out and put me somewhere that will remind you how smart and beautiful your ideas are. 

 

 

make what YOU make and make a LOT of it

Desknotes 1 christina rmozik

Find me encouraging? Print me! Cut me out and fold me up. Put me on your desk next to your favorite rock. Use me as a reminder to keep that chin where it belongs, sky high.

 

 

Over the past few years I’ve come across some ideas that are simple and encouraging. They have been important to me and have enhanced my making and changed how I think about making art. Because of this I think it’s important to pass them along- because doing this art thing can be tough-and we all could use a little more sparkle magic.

So every couple weeks you’ll find a postcard, from me to you, addressing influence, style, making, kindness, or whatever little realization has since popped into my brain. I hope you like them, and I hope you participate by letting me know your own thoughts, or what you’d like a little encouragement in.

All my love,
Chris

lets have a conversation

I’ve been spending a lot of my recent time in the coffee shop, drawing and making and laughing-getting to know other people around my town and other makers that also spend their days freelancing to the aroma of freshly ground heaven. It’s a tricky job, this art thing, there aren’t very many rules, and even fewer guidelines, but through these conversations with others of all ages and skill development, I’ve come across a few things that I think are true. Whether they are bits of advice from professors back in school or things I’ve figured out on my own, I’ve been thinking it only makes sense to share them on as many platforms as possible, because hey- we are all in this thing together. So my goal over the next few weeks is to share little things I’ve learned and expound upon them in hopes that it will get a dialogue going. Please feel free to interact, comment, lend an example, say the exact opposite-I’m after truth and conversation here-so join in. We all have something worthwhile to say. I’m hoping to be clear minded enough to post something once a week, as an experiment in sharing and listening, I’m looking forward to your thoughts and perceptions. 

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Just got back from exploring the great island of New Zealand. Backpacking. Mountain climbing. Hopping into vans with hilarious Europeans. Hitchhiking home. When you go, spend at least two months, because five weeks was not enough for this beaut and the Kiwi’s will treat you right. These are all 35mm film shots from my old Cannon.