Sleeping Beauty

21 05 2012

Sleeping Beauty. What a wonderful way to sleep. Die. Its not a fairy tale. The winner of two many awards to count. This is a book for the ages. 20 to 80.

Here is a blurb.

In Sleeping Beauty, winner of the 2004 Independent Publisher Award for Best Horror and winner of the 2004 Electronic Publishers Award for Best Horror, a young woman boards an airplane for an unknown destination and finds herself in a quaint village where each citizen has his own story to tell. A horrifying mystery is revealed to the young woman. Soon she discovers that the only escape from the village is murder – her own.

Snappy? No? Here’s another blurb.

It is the landscape of Eliot and Pound. Uppers and blue pills. Snow drifts and psychiatric hospitals. Streetcars and shock treatments. A delusional young woman boards an airplane hoping to escape the horrors of this world. Some time during the flight she steps off the airplane into another world. In a quaint village where she takes up residence. And then begins her search for the only person who has meant anything to her. Her grandfather. But she soon finds that this village is damned. There is no escape. But one. You must be murdered.

There was talk of making the book into a movie. But the funding wasn’t there. I had a gas bill to pay. But who knows. My daughter is in the business and she might be tempted…

Buy it here…





Mari Mahr

21 05 2012

Like many collage artists Mahr’s work seems to be drenched in metaphor. They are like poems written by someone who has lost themselves in adolescent loneliness. Her pain is so acute that its depiction is forbidden and so she focuses on objects around her. They reflect some insight so private that it must not be spoken. And I must confess, it bores me. Ask to explain the difference between art that is great or modest, I would say modest art never overcomes itself because it is too busy drawing attention to how important it is.

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George Shaw

21 05 2012

George Shaw’s work is about time. Aging. Crumbling. And about the movement out of mythology into the real world. Out of a child’s mysticism. And into wisdom.

I once saw a photo. Taken in the 30s. From one side of the street at the other.  It was just an ordinary photograph. I asked myself, what did the photographer take a picture of? I couldn’t see what he saw. There was nothing remotely a target of the camera. Not a house. A pretty girl. A dog. Nothing. And it’s not until I saw Shaw’s paintings that I realized the answer to that question. He wasn’t taking a picture of one thing in the world. He was taking a picture of the world. George Shaw. I love this guy’s work.

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