Posted in Architecture, art, Books, Drawing, Photography, Poetry, San Francisco Diaries, sketchbook, sketching, Traveling, Writing, tagged berkeley sign, Drawing, Photography, san francisco, sketches on February 19, 2012| 2 Comments »
Posted in art, Books, Drawing, Ink, Poetry, Quotes, Writing, tagged Drawing, Ficciones, Jorge Luis Borges, Labyrinths, Orbis Tertius, plane, san francisco, Tlön, Uqbar, working woman on September 27, 2011| Leave a Comment »
Ink on paper. September 2011
In Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius by Borges, we find the description of a hrönir.
In the most ancient regions of Tlön, the duplication of lost objects is not infrequent.
Two persons look for a pencil;the first finds it and says nothing; the second finds a second pencil, no less real, but closer to its expectations.
These secondary objects are called hrönir and are, though awkward in form, somewhat longer.
…
The methodical fabrication of hrönir (says the Eleventh Volume) has performed prodigious services for archaeologists.
It has made possible the interrogation and even the modification of the past, which is now no less plastic and docile than the future.
Curiously, the hrönir of second and third degree –the hrönir derived from another hrön — exaggerated the aberrations of the initial one;
those of fifth degree are almost uniform; those of ninth degree become confused with those of the second;
in those of the eleventh there is a purity of line not found in the original. The process is cyclical: the hrön of twelfth degree begins to fall off in quality.
Stranger and more pure than any hrön is, at times, the ur: the object produced through suggestion, educed by hope.
Things become duplicated in Tlön; they also tend to become effaced and lose their details when they are forgotten.
A classic example is the doorway which survived so long as it was visited by a beggar and disappeared at his death.
At times some birds, a horse, have saved the ruins of an amphitheater.
Ficciones, Jorge Luis Borges
Posted in art, Design, Drawing, Poetry, Quotes, San Francisco Diaries, Writing, tagged cocktail ring, Drawing, gift, ink, Love, ring, san francisco, sketching on October 1, 2010| 1 Comment »
Ink on paper. October 1, 2010.
Today was the one year anniversary of the official launch of SketchBloom!
Let’s drink a cup of tea to that:)
Posted in Architecture, art,poetry,writing, Design, Drawing, Music, tagged 100 Beats Arabica, Amoeba Records, Andalusia, Arab design, Arab lamp, Arab Music, Arabesque, Arabic, Cheb Khaled, Haight Ashbury, Islamic Architecture, Kan Zaman, lucernaire, Maghreb Musiqa, moorish, North African Music, Radio Tarifa, san francisco, Spirit of Rai, World Music on August 14, 2010| Leave a Comment »
Lamp. Kan Zaman Restaurant, San Francisco, Haight-Ashbury. Charcoal, Graphite and Ink. August 2010.
Click to Andalucia
Click to teleport
Bought from Amoeba Records. Freshly imported for your pleasure.
Posted in art,poetry,writing, Coffee, Drawing, Poetry, tagged cafe de la presse, cafe', Coffee, coffee & culture, culture, Futo Coffee, graphite, ink, masking letters, moments of urbanity, newschool of architecture and design, pilot pen, san francisco, urban moments on November 19, 2009| 2 Comments »
San Francisco – Cafe’ De La Presse
Legendary Literary Cafe’ a stone’s throw from the French Embassy. The staff’s uniforms were très French, the atmosphere European, and the cappuccino was ….flawless.
Collage, Pilot Pen on Paper
Pilot Pen on Paper. November 2009
All photographs taken with Lumix (Panasonic) camera, Leica wide lens.
San Diego: Newschool of Architecture and Design – Cafe’ A la Carte
Bringing coffee, culture and ‘moments of urbanity ‘, as Francisco Sanin, a dear professor in Syracuse|Florence, used to say.
The passage/hallway is transformed in a piazzetta; Adam, the owner, strums his guitar, chats with customers.
Brings book such as ‘Reading Lolita in Tehran’, and Russian lit.
Our very own coffee cart @ NewSchool: Cafe' A la Carte. Pilot pen, Graphite and Prismacolor white pencil on paper. November 2009
Arabic Coffee
Naomi Shihab Nye
It was never too strong for us:
make it blacker, Papa,
thick in the bottom,
tell again how the years will gather
in small white cups,
how luck lives in a spot of grounds.
Leaning over the stove, he let it
boil to the top, and down again.
Two times. No sugar in his pot.
And the place where men and women
break off from one another
was not present in that room.
The hundred disappointments,
fire swallowing olive-wood beads
at the warehouse, and the dreams
tucked like pocket handkerchiefs
into each day, took their places
on the table, near the half-empty
dish of corn. And none was
more important than the others,
and all were guests. When
he carried the tray into the room,
high and balanced in his hands,
it was an offering to all of them,
stay, be seated, follow the talk
wherever it goes. The coffee was
the center of the flower.
Like clothes on a line saying
You will live long enough to wear me,
a motion of faith. There is this,
and there is more.
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