R. A. Villanueva

Resounding thanks to @publisherswkly.bsky.social for this beautiful, incisive reflection on 𝘼 𝙃𝙤𝙡𝙮 𝘿𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙—

a piece of cardboard is on a ledge. it has been painted with block capital letters in flat blue paint. the letters read THE ARCHITECTS OF HOPELESSNESS ARE LIARS on the right you can see part of a shelf with other painted coardboards but what they say is not legible

teaching philosophy, artist's statement, and guiding line all in one

——Jenny Holzer, 𝙐𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙩𝙡𝙚𝙙 (from 𝙇𝙞𝙫𝙞𝙣𝙜) MORE THAN ONCE I’VE AWAKENED WITH TEARS RUNNING DOWN MY CHEEKS. I HAVE HAD TO THINK WHETHER I WAS CRYING OR WHETHER IT WAS INVOLUNTARY, LIKE DROOLING.

——Jenny Holzer, 𝙐𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙩𝙡𝙚𝙙 (from 𝙇𝙞𝙫𝙞𝙣𝙜)

MORE THAN ONCE I’VE AWAKENED WITH TEARS RUNNING DOWN MY CHEEKS. I HAVE HAD TO THINK WHETHER I WAS CRYING OR WHETHER IT WAS INVOLUNTARY, LIKE DROOLING.

“autoportrait ‘jour’,” a painting by Breyten Breytenbach dated “18/8/93.” The title is handwritten in black at the top of the bright orange and yellow canvas and suggests that this is a self-portrait. At the center of the image is a hybrid form: it has the head of a songbird (with black, white, and red feathers) and the oversized body of a man (wearing a dark blue shirt covered in red stains or streaks). The arms and hands of the figure seems to be leaning on a table or edge the same color as the background; it casts a dark shadow.

A screenshot of an email from the poet, teacher, and anti-apartheid activist Breyten Breytenbach. It was originally sent on 12/31/06 with the subject line: “Happy 2007.” The text reads: “Dear sister and brothers, To wish you all a grand and deeply gratifying 2007. May the lines fall for you in the appointed places, may you knock the knife-hafts of writing against the bone of words and extract the marrow of poetry and know that it is sweet, may you go on showing that there's human dignity and worth in living and continue believing that justice is attainable. I'm writing to you from Catalonia. The days are quiet and clear but for the slow smoke of winter in the hollows and the Pyrenees are glimmering white like angels' mirrors on the horizon. Night falls early, bringing heavy dew and cold and absolute silence. In two days' time we'll be heading north to Paris again. And then the traveling starts—Mexico, South Africa, Senegal, probably Holland, and later in the year Caracas and Medellin. And then, if all works out, it will be time to return to New York. I hope to see you there. If not, I'm sure our roads will cross somewhere. I need to tell you that you were a very special group of people to work with. I don't know how it came about—maybe we were just lucky…”

After hearing word of another dear teacher’s passing, I spent this morning searching through my inbox for Breyten Breytenbach’s name, reading our notes and messages.

I look at his self-portraits with older eyes now. And I hear again—and anew—his hopes for us sent from the very edges of 2006

An anonymous 1-page reflection on a poem in English and in German. It’s taped up on a plain white wall next to a window and a stack of used books in the very back of the poetry section of Unnameable Books, Brooklyn. The analysis alternates between handwriting in deep blue ink and fading typewriter print: “On all hilltops There is peace. In all treetops You will hear Hardly a breath. Birds in the woods are silent. Just wait, soon You too will rest... The idea of the poem is simple: in the woods everything is asleep, and you will sleep, too. The purpose of the poetry is not to try to dazzle us with an astonishing thought, but to make one moment of existence unforgettable and worthy of unbearable nostalgia... Every line has a different number of syllables, there is an alternation of trochees, iambs, dactyls, the sixth line is oddly longer than the others, and even though the poem consists of two couplets, the first grammatical sentence ends asymmetrically in the fifth line, which creates a melody that had never existed before, in any poem, as magnificent as it is ordinary.”

At Unnameable Books in Brooklyn, taped-up on the back wall by a window—this unsigned page divided between handwriting and type:

“The purpose of the poetry is not to try to dazzle us with an astonishing thought, but to make one moment of existence unforgettable and worthy of unbearable nostalgia…”

——from 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙏𝙚𝙢𝙥𝙚𝙨𝙩 (I, ii)

Lurking in the shadows, as per usual

From INVISIBLE CITIES by Italo Calvino (trans. William Weaver): "The inferno of the living is not something that will be; if there is one, it is what is already here, the inferno where we live every day, that we form by being together. There are two ways to escape suffering it. The first is easy for many: accept the inferno and become such a part of it that you can no longer see it. The second is risky and demands constant vigilance and apprehension: seek and learn to recognize who and what, in the midst of the inferno, are not inferno, then make them endure, give them space."

——Italo Calvino, from 𝙄𝙣𝙫𝙞𝙨𝙞𝙗𝙡𝙚 𝘾𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙚𝙨

——Nina Simone

Just like the good old days—

A black and white scan of a quote by Sonia Sanchez. This text is from her interview with Claudia Tate originally published in 𝘉𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘞𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯 𝘞𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘵 𝘞𝘰𝘳𝘬: “SANCHEZ: I write because I must. I write because it keeps me going. I probably have not killed anyone in America because I write. I've maintained good controls over myself by writing. I also write because I think one must not only share what one thinks, or the conclusions one has reached, but one must also share to help others reach their conclusions. Writing might help them survive.”

——Sonia Sanchez, from her interview with Claudia Tate in 𝘽𝙡𝙖𝙘𝙠 𝙒𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙣 𝙒𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙖𝙩 𝙒𝙤𝙧𝙠

A color photo of an untitled poem spray-painted on a green wall. The stenciled text alternates between yellow and white and reads: “Lord When you send the rain think about it, please, a little? Do not get carried away by the sound of falling water, the marvelous light on the falling water. I am beneath that water. It falls with great force and the light Blinds me to the light. James Baldwin”

——James Baldwin, “Untitled” (a stencil spray-painted on a Joralemon Street construction site in Brooklyn)