the sublime

The sublime has been lurking a bit around lately, appearing as some sort of visual response to the list of tragedies we've been witness to in the last month. My mind's eye seems to be seeking out images as a sort of respite, as though these images are the only real words I could speak. I found that even a google image search of the words "the sublime" itself was quite gratifying, and led to many more such beautiful--if not sometimes also perfectly terrible--images.

I am certainly breaking all sorts of copyrights to post these here, but I will list them in order. I wish I could hang all of these images together in a large open room. Or at least one of them over my couch--but then I'd have to pick.

1. Caspar David Friedrich, The Monk by the Sea (Der Mönch am Meer), 1808–10. Oil on canvas.
2. Chris Friel, cf20–coast 5, 2010. Photograph. Five-second hand held exposure, no editing (from Flickr).
3. Anselm Kiefer, The Sixth Trumpet (Die Sechste Posaune), 1996. Emulsion, acrylic, shellac, and sunflower seeds on canvas. (One of my favorite contemporary artists.)
4. Ed Lisieski, Landscape, 2007. Polaroid. (Another image gleaned from my Flickr favorites, by a photographer (and online friend) who lives in the PNW;  I consistently admire his work.
5. Sophie Aston, Unfamiliar Skies IV, 1998-2003. Oil and Alkyd on Canvas. (Another contemporary artist favorite). 
6. Mia Perlman, Gyre, 2008. Paper, india ink, tacks, paper clips. 
7. Guillermo Casas Baruque, Untitled; rare clouds (nubes raras), 2010. Photograph. (Another Flickr contact.)
8. Georgia O'Keeffe, Red Hills and Sky.
9. Lilie-mélo, My Sky, 2007. Photograph. (Another Flickr favorite, this time from the artist and blogger who can be followed here.)
10.  Sophie Aston, Territory, 2004-2008. Oil on Canvas

sublime subway brass

A few months ago, as I was running to catch the 6 train at GCS, I heard the wail of horns. Not the angry sound of taxi horns filtering down from the street, but brass horns: trumpets and trombones or the like. The horns were joyously howling over a deep rhythmic percussion, reminding me of Balkan gypsy music, rock, and jazz at once. I stopped running to the 6 train, and as if hypnotized, walked in the direction of the horns. A substantial subway audience crowded around a group of seven or eight young African-American men trumpeting a swelling wail into the busy subway corridor.

I stood transfixed, hair standing up on my bare arms. I don’t remember but that I didn’t move for at least ten minutes. My appointment seemed unimportant. The swaying musicians were unbearably beautiful; they transformed the grimy passageway into something akin to sacred. Between songs I finally broke away, putting money in the bin at their feet. I purposely did not look at the stack of CDs next to the bin, nor at the name of the band. I wanted to remember them this way, sweating in the subway to the howling passion of their music.

I have heard them playing in the subway since that evening. Each time I stop and listen, each time eyeing the CDs suspiciously. Last night on the way to my AT lesson they were playing in Union Square subway. I didn’t have any cash on me, but I did get the name of the band: The Hypnotic Brass Ensemble. I did a google search on them and found a few interesting links, including a New York Times video (click here) and their own blogspot site (click here).

I think next time I pass them I'll buy a CD.