Archive for the ‘Link Love’ Category


In January I collided with two splendid creatures in Balboa Park, Lila’Angelique and Thoth, which together form Tribal Baroque.

I wanted to share some portraits I took of them, in order to share some of the magic of their presence and music.

Nothing prepares you for the beauty that is Tribal Baroque, but here is a taste of what’s in store if you can make it to one of their prayformances in the park.

This is the Facebook page of Tribal Baroque, so you can catch these fairies who are here in San Diego for a limited time.

{more to come…see below}

Four days ago, I spent two hours crafting the perfect posts on my muses, full of links and perfectly ( to me) worded prose.

When I went to publish the post, I LOST everything. It is the first time that this has happened on WordPress, which is usually excellent at saving drafts in progress.

I have been too heartbroken to come back and re-craft my post, but I have new art from Saturday and tonight – yes i started sketching and painting again (!) – and new photographs that I want to share, and life must go on.

Enjoy this images for now.. I will come back in the morning, refreshed, and tell you its stories…












Thank you for bringing the *triple* rainbow and pink sky ūüėČ :





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All images and text © 2013 Rose-Lynn Fisher


Tears of Remembrance. Rose-Lynn Fisher, 2013.


Tears of Release. © 2013 Rose-Lynn Fisher


Tears of Possibility and Hope. © 2013 Rose-Lynn Fisher


Tears of Momentum, Redirected. © 2013 Rose-Lynn Fisher


Tears of Ending and Beginning. © 2013 Rose-Lynn Fisher


Onion Tears. © 2013 Rose-Lynn Fisher


Tears of Laughing till I’m Crying. ¬© 2013 Rose-Lynn Fisher


Tears of Elation at a Liminal Moment. © 2013 Rose-Lynn Fisher


Tears of Timeless Reunion. © 2013 Rose-Lynn Fisher


Basal Tears. © 2013 Rose-Lynn Fisher


Tears of Change. © 2013 Rose-Lynn Fisher


Tears of Grief. © 2013 Rose-Lynn Fisher


A friend of mine, The Book Madam, shared this lyrical work ‚Äď and I could not help passing it on.

Haunting, mesmerizing and beautiful, the Topography of Tears reminds us that there is an architecture to our memories, our grief, our love.

The stark landscapes depicted are aerial maps of emotions ‚Äď tears may spring from the eyes, but they are crystallized by our minds.

Seen at a microscopic level, tears become tangible maps of our heart, site plans of our soul-states.

Our alchemy knows the difference between the landscapes of memory, cascading mirth, the drifting flotsam of grief, and the continents of hope.


From the author:


The Topography of Tears


‘The Topography of Tears is a study of 100 tears photographed through a standard light microscope.
The project began in a period of personal change, loss, and copious tears.
One day I wondered if my tears of grief would look any different from my tears of happiness – and I set out to explore them up close.

Years later, this series comprises a wide range of my own and others’ tears, from elation to onions, as well as sorrow, frustration, rejection, resolution, laughing, yawning, birth and rebirth, and many more, each a tiny history.
The random compositions I find in magnified tears often evoke a sense of place, like aerial views of emotional terrain.
Although the empirical nature of tears is a chemistry of water, proteins, minerals, hormones, antibodies and enzymes, the topography of tears is a momentary landscape, transient as the fingerprint of someone in a dream.

This series is like an ephemeral atlas.
Roaming microscopic vistas, I marvel at the visual similarities between micro and macro realms, how the patterning of nature seems so consistent, regardless of scale.
Patterns of erosion etched into earth over millions of years may look quite similar to the branched crystalline patterns of an evaporated tear that took less than a minute to occur.
Tears are the medium of our most primal language in moments as unrelenting as death, as basic as hunger, and as complex as a rite of passage.
They are the evidence of our inner life overflowing its boundaries, spilling over into consciousness.

Wordless and spontaneous, they release us to the possibility of realignment, reunion, catharsis: shedding tears, shedding old skin.

It‚Äôs as though each one of our tears carries a microcosm of the collective human experience, like one drop of an ocean.’


Rose-Lynn Fisher


Check out her other work at rose-lynnfisher.com

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I found and lost myself inside of that night. Collage. Graphite, fountain ink, found objects. San Diego. December 9, 2013.

I found and lost myself inside of that night. Collage. Graphite, fountain ink, found objects. San Diego. December 9, 2013.

These collages are starting to need a change of byline for SketchBloom: Art Therapy. Oh well;)

Above, a work in progress (and, darling aren’t we all?)..not sure which way it will go.

In the midst of nude painting to be done from memory (and I have started sketching, too bad the final product won’t be posted here), there’s been art and feelings on fire.

In the quest for ASCII hearts ( yes, lots of hearts are needed ) I found these lovely images.

All credits to benjscott.com

All credits to benjscott.com

The image above is from http://www.benjscott.com/artscii/. Click to be taken to more exquisite ASCII art images and his program.

The ascii art images above are from http://www.benjscott.com/artscii/. Click to be taken to his program.

This is a program called ASCIIART – which goes beyond recreating images in characters to delving into typography…and…this had me at hello.

I cannot wait to experiment with some black and white art.

Also, a return to poetry, literature and tender music. Maybe a new poem will blossom soon…the ingredients are there once again.

Some quotes from a book I am finally finishing (quotes that became a poem): The Beautiful Ruins by Jess Walter.
Freedom and loneliness overlap, look in the mirror, my face, these words reversed.

Hearing his name caused him to turn back again

looking into her eyes was like standing by a door slightly ajar

how could you not push open the door

see what lay inside?

And that door seemed to open a little.

and the glimpse he had beyond the door tortured him

he wanted to say more, to say everything on his mind, but he couldn’t.

It wasn’t a question of language.

He doubted the words existed in any language.

He  forced himself to look away from her then.

It was like prying a magnet off steel.

It was as though, outside of that room, there could be such a thing as ‘right’ and ‘wrong’.

And then there was her.

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This photo was taken by my dear friend and photographer/artist extraordinaire Maha Comianos.

She is currently exploring the creative side of architects in her Archi * Artist Series, among many other artistic endeavors.

Check out her inspired work at:

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For my birthday, my blogsister Ghadah dedicated a page to me ‚̧

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The Screen Woman. Digital Collage. Text from "A Year in the Merde" by Stephen Clarke.



Photo from Inspired Goodness.

Founded in 2008, Inspired Goodness is a custom invitation and paper goods studio
located in Brooklyn, NY.
Notable books:

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The Fl√Ęneur: A Radical-Chic Icon

The Fl√Ęneur. Ink on trace paper. February 26, 2011

The Fl√Ęneur and his turtle in the streets of Paris. Digital collage. February 26, 2011. Background photo from San Francisco‚Äôs artist David Blumin. Click for his website.

Then I heard the phrase ‘Walk with a turtle’ on NPR, during an interview with Council of Dads’ author Bruce Feiler–and had an epiphany: I, too, had been a fl√Ęneuse in my early years. When I was 9 years old I used to tie a red ribbon to the shell of my turtle Stefania/Stefano (we are still not sure) and take her for ‘walks’ around my building and in the field of olive trees nearby. This cannot just be explained by mere coincidence or a sense of equanimity (i would take my giant schnautzer Zorro for walks- or rather, he would take me- and treated Stefania/Stefano to the same). By walking the city (ok , in my case the field of olive trees) at the pace of a tortoise, we are bound to pay attention to life around us, to read the city–not just skim it from the wheel of our car or glancing up from smartphones while we traverse sidewalks. Having a turtle as a guide nudges us to stop rushing. I am reminded of the buddhist monk in the documentary ‘Baraka’, slowly pacing the street with small steps , at the sound of a bell–in the midst of a hyperactive Japanese metropolis. The realization of possible multi-layered readings on the figure of the flaneur prompted a small research.

Historical evidence of The Fl√Ęneur? Or just man waiting for his wife? Undated image from: storify.com/virtualdavis/flaneur


The term comes from ‘fl√Ęner’, which means to stroll in French. From this verb Baudelaire coined the word¬† fl√Ęneur, a person who walks the city in order to experience it.¬†¬†The¬†fl√Ęneur¬†is¬†driven ¬†by an ¬†insatiable ¬†hunger ¬†for ¬†passion;¬†he¬†¬†seeks ¬†the ¬†streets and ¬†the ¬†city ¬†life ¬†for they ¬†provide ¬†inspiration ¬†and ¬†cure him of the malaise and loneliness¬†¬†of ¬†being human.¬†He practices mindfulness, or¬†conscious dilly-dallying. In US they would call him a ‘loiterer’, surely shoo him away…or perhaps fine or even jail him (I always tell my students there is no such thing as the word ‘loitering’ in Italian….what else would we do in Piazzas!?). My friend Bruce and I were discussing the¬†fl√Ęneur¬†few days ago¬†and he reminded me of¬† the symbology of the turtle and this quote from Rumi:

The soul needs as much time to wander as the feet.



Baudelaire writes of the fl√Ęneur:

 The  crowd  is  his  element,  as  the  air  is  that  of  birds  and  water  of  fishes.

 His  passion  and passionate  spectator,  it  is  an  immense  joy  to  set  up  house  in  the  heart  of  the  multitude, amid  the  ebb  and  flow  of  movement,  in  the  midst  of  the  fugitive  and  the  infinite.

To  be away  from  home  and  yet  to  feel  oneself  everywhere  at  home;  to  see  the  world,  to  be  at the  centre  of  the  world,  and  yet  to  remain  hidden  from  the  world

impartial ¬†natures which ¬†the ¬†tongue ¬†can ¬†but ¬†clumsily ¬†define. ¬†The ¬†spectator ¬†is ¬†a ¬†prince ¬†who ¬†everywhere ¬†rejoices ¬†in ¬†his ¬†incognito. ¬†The ¬†lover ¬†of ¬†life ¬†makes ¬†the ¬†whole ¬†world ¬†his ¬†family, ¬†just ¬†like ¬†the lover ¬†of ¬†the ¬†fair ¬†sex ¬†who ¬†builds ¬†up ¬†his ¬†family ¬†from ¬†all ¬†the ¬†beautiful ¬†women ¬†that ¬†he ¬†has ever ¬†found, ¬†or ¬†that ¬†are ¬†or ¬†are ¬†not ¬†-¬≠‚Äź ¬†to ¬†be ¬†found; ¬†or ¬†the ¬†lover ¬†of ¬†pictures ¬†who ¬†lives ¬†in ¬†a magical ¬†society ¬†of ¬†dreams ¬†painted ¬†on ¬†canvas.


A Process of Navigating Erudition

From Wikipedia: Fl√Ęneur is not limited to someone committing the physical act of peripatetic stroll in the Baudelairian sense, but can also include a “complete philosophical way of living and thinking”, and a process of navigating erudition as described by Nassim Nicholas Taleb’s essay on “Why I Walk” in the second edition of The Black Swan (2010).¬†¬†A Sunday Time review called¬†The Black¬†Swan¬†¬†one of the twelve most influential books since WWII.

Benjamin ¬†in his Arcades further describes the fl√Ęneur utilizes the city,¬†¬†which becomes an¬†¬†extension of¬† his residence:

The ¬† street ¬† becomes ¬† a ¬† dwelling ¬† for ¬† the ¬† fl√Ęneur; ¬† he ¬† is ¬† as ¬† much ¬† at ¬† home ¬† among ¬† the facades ¬†of ¬†houses ¬†as ¬†a ¬†citizen ¬†is ¬†in ¬†his ¬†four ¬†walls. ¬†To ¬†him ¬†the ¬†shiny, ¬†enameled ¬†signs ¬†of businesses ¬†are ¬†at ¬†least ¬†as ¬†good ¬†a ¬†wall ¬†ornament ¬†as ¬†an ¬†oil ¬†painting ¬†is ¬†to ¬†the ¬†bourgeois ¬†in his ¬†salon. ¬†The ¬†walls ¬†are ¬†the ¬†desk ¬†against ¬†which ¬†he ¬†presses ¬†his ¬†notebooks; ¬†news-¬≠‚Äźstands are ¬†his ¬†libraries ¬†and ¬†the ¬†terraces ¬†of ¬†caf√©s ¬†are ¬†the ¬†balconies ¬†from ¬†which ¬†he ¬†looks ¬†down on ¬†his ¬†household ¬†after ¬†his ¬†work ¬†is ¬†done.

Some of the questions I have been thinking about are : Can the fl√Ęneur be a fl√Ęneuse? Must he or she always haunt the city aloof and alone, or is ‘Fl√Ęneurie’ an activity that can be enjoyed in small groups, maybe of separate actors, each with his or her own turtle?

The fl√Ęneur is enjoying immense popularity on the Internet and blogosphere,¬†among the hipster¬†and (pseudo)intellectual crowd. ¬†He is radical chic, a gentleman stroller whose eccentricity is afforded to him by indipendent wealth. He is a man of leisure who can make a statement about the bondage of work and busyiness: he is above it and does not need it.
On the other side of the coin, we might re-evaluate the ‘homeless’ people, the figure of the¬†clochard (sounds better in French doesn’t it) as fl√Ęneurs without¬†means, but with the same intellect and intent. ¬†They also make the city their living room and library.

In “American Flaneur: The Cosmic Physiognomy of Edgar Allan Poe“, James V. Werner describes how ‘¬†highly self-aware, and to a certain degree flamboyant and theatrical, dandies of the mid-nineteenth century created scenes through outrageous acts like walking turtles on leashes down the streets of Paris. Such acts exemplify a fl√Ęneur’s active participation in and fascination with street life while displaying a critical attitude towards the uniformity, speed, and anonymity of modern life in the city.’

Hmm…Sounds like The Situationists.

A¬†new¬†interpretation¬†of¬†the¬†activities¬†of¬†the¬†fl√Ęneur¬†appear¬†in¬†the writings¬†of¬†Guy¬†Debord,¬†the¬†d√©rive¬†also¬†being¬†a¬†protest¬†against¬†the¬†processes¬†of¬†consumption¬†and¬†capitalism:

One of the basic situationist practices is the d√©rive [literally: ‚Äúdrifting‚ÄĚ], a technique of rapid passage through varied ambiances. D√©rives involve playful-constructive behavior and awareness of psychogeographical effects, and are thus quite different from the classic notions of journey or stroll.

In a dérive one or more persons during a certain period drop their relations, their work and leisure activities, and all their other usual motives for movement and action, and let themselves be drawn by the attractions of the terrain and the encounters they find there. Chance is a less important factor in this activity than one might think: from a dérive point of view cities have psychogeographical contours, with constant currents, fixed points and vortexes that strongly discourage entry into or exit from certain zones.

–Guy Debord

While the flaneurs practiced ‘aimless wandering’, the Situationists devised processes to purposefully get lost.

There is no English equivalent for the French word fl√Ęneur. Cassell’s dictionary defines fl√Ęneur as a stroller, saunterer, drifter but none of these terms seems quite accurate. There is no English equivalent for the term, just as there is no Anglo-Saxon counterpart of that essentially Gallic individual, the deliberately aimless pedestrian, unencumbered by any obligation or sense of urgency, who, being French and therefore frugal, wastes nothinincluding his time which he spends with the leisurely discrimination of a gourmet, savoring the multiple flavors of his city.

Cornelia Otis Skinner.

Elegant Wits and Grand Horizontals, 1962

Watching is the chosen pleasure of fl√Ęneur. He is an ‘urban stalker’, as Susan Sontag defines him in her 1977 essay On Photography.¬†¬†Modern fl√Ęneurs, let’s arm ourselves with cameras or a moleskine .¬†Let’s pretend we are all ‘The Sartorialist’ and many, many other envoys on particular missions. Would you enjoy the streets of your city if¬†you thought you were spying on someone, an urban detective, privy to secrets no-one else can know? What would¬†the intelligence gathered from today?¬†What stories could you tell(or draw)? What stories would the city reveal to you. There is so much life out there. And buildings are lessons.

Let the urban voyeurism begin.
Here are some useful links:

And, finally, my very own books for Parisian flanerie.

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