Just to carry on my theme of WHIMSY I thought I’d include a few pieces from Paul Villinski. Another example of an artist with a great name to boot (recall Robert Sly, Thaddeus Wolfe, Cindy Flook). Villinski takes things like old tin cans and records and cuts them up (actually quite hard to do if you’ve tried) into butterflies. He pairs the beautiful bright butterflies with old war paraphernalia. Perhaps a comment on how man made objects and ideas fizzle away while mother natures endures.
My ears are burning as I write this post. Not only from my mystical ressurection of my love of music. I have been imprisoned in my passion for imagery. Although it is indeed a language impossible to deny, our eyes and how they are emotionally mesmerized, invoking all the senses. The sense of hearing and music is for my first pharmacy before art came into my life. Music is indeed the universal language. My ears are burning not only because I have been a hi-fi maiden voyage sailing on the R & B to Jazz seas. My ears are burning because long ago I spoke to my Father about Saint Brid and he also aknowledged her as a goddess. His mother was the lost untamed schrew of a wildfire appaloosa apparently from Kildare. So, I often wondered if that is why he loved Saint Bridgit? Come to find out there are a million reasons to lover her and I pray for her intercession almost everyday. She is the goddess and Saint of poetry, smithing of gold to tin. She is the Saint of the hearth and bride. Later after my Father went to heaven along with Louis Armstrong and Louis Prima, Charlie Ventura, John Keating, Charlie Parker, Thelonius Monk and hey even Bo Diddley but I am not sure they are all in Heaven but I am sure they get together for lot’s of gigs. I found out that Saint Bridgit shortly after he passed away was the vernacular for the word ” JAZZ” Sure there were lots of guessing going on and imaginings. But sure as Ireland is green, so it seems the term JASS is Gaelic in origin. I am happy my Father loved Saint Bridgit! The home he lived in was bought because of an Irish sweepstakes ticket. Since his Mother was a wildfire women they forgot to tell him she tried to steal him and bring him on horseback whereever she roamed. But a brokenheart is a sure muse for many ballads and be bopping hell raising compostions, so I dedicate this post to you Dear ol Dad, I love you and oh it’s also the word for tea! (photos soon)
The African etymology of jazz was fabricated by a New York press agent in 1917.