Diana Castro: Fine Art photography: ottobre 2010

mercoledì 27 ottobre 2010

Diana Castro: Limbo Introduction

The realm of the virtuous pagan dead. Christianity dealt with the problem of those who lived virtuously before the coming of Christ and unbaptized infants by placing these souls in a special part of Hell, called Limbo. Here they suffered no pain, but were excluded from heavenly bliss In the Divina Commedia the poet Dante (1265–1321) is guided through this place by Virgil, a resident himself.

Limbo Poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Tis a strange place, this Limbo!--not a Place, Yet name it so;--where Time and weary Space Fettered from flight, with night-mare sense of fleeing, Strive for their last crepuscular half-being;-- Lank Space, and scytheless Time with branny hands Barren and soundless as the measuring sands, Not mark'd by flit of Shades,--unmeaning they As moonlight on the dial of the day! But that is lovely--looks like human Time,-- An old man with a steady look sublime, That stops his earthly task to watch the skies; But he is blind--a statue hath such eyes;-- Yet having moonward turn'd his face by chance, Gazes the orb with moon-like countenance, With scant white hairs, with fore top bald and high, He gazes still,--his eyeless face all eye;-- As 'twere an organ full of silent sight, His whole face seemeth to rejoice in light! Lip touching lip, all moveless, bust and limb-- He seems to gaze at that which seems to gaze on him! No such sweet sights doth Limbo den immure, Wall'd round, and made a spirit-jail secure, By the mere horror of blank Naught-at-all, Whose circumambience doth these ghosts enthral. A lurid thought is growthless, dull Privation, Yet that is but a Purgatory curse; Hell knows a fear far worse, A fear--a future state;--'tis positive Negation!
 

Diana Castro website

Diana Castro: Dejavu' Introduction

I look at the world from  another side of the window  my heart waiting  with anticipation, struggling  with nightmares.  hour of solitary in meditation   looking to find the next  dimension, the meaning behind  death, before it's too late  our souls binned outside life's prisms,  scraps of past lives before my eyes.
ghost shadow, waiting for me to  find the consequence of our purgatory .  An already lived moment Already seen Remembering the future Somewhere we have already been
A shiver down my spine A flash of eeriness too A feeling that you've already lived that moment.
This is just a dejavu'.
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sabato 23 ottobre 2010

Diana Castro: Conflict&Rebirth Introduction

Life revives at the point of art’s rebirth,
Where we dream of painting the infinite.
Dreams are the language which mediates life,
Through life’s endless renewals we offer our dreams,
We pen and paint and sing this born pretense
To lend substance to what is endless air.
We dream of seeing what we are,
Of feeling it in our hands.
We invent the clay we need to sculpt
Ourselves into immortal forms, to populate the void.

The painting which mirrors the map of stars
Reflecting the image our souls have seen
Is the sacrament of our primal myths,
Though our efforts all sum to miniatures,
Scrimshaw scrawled on the fossils of our souls.
Our ambition demands the mirror-quest,
We search through our minds for the sheens we need,
The scene demands all perfections at once,
For the image of life to reflect what life is,
For the sum of the suns to shine on the waves,
Compiling an arch toward the solar key,
Rosetta stone of the night’s lost mystery,
Promising illumination at last, forever -
As the lines tremble and coincide,
We behold the bridge consummated.

We dream the eternal bridge, an eternal cycle crystallized.
Plato called thought a process of remembrance.
All past threshholds of sleep sum the souls which awake,
Our long-sleeping souls which carve lines into shade,
Which the new sun inflames into visions.
But these are the scenes which danced in our eyes
As we last fell asleep.
While we dream we compile a new image-world,
We only dust off the old one.
Waking, we only dust off ourselves.
This is the crystal we dream.

We wake anew, to a sun we’ve never seen,
Whose mystery lends clues of continuity.
We search the dawn’s shadows for traces of night,
And of what we dream we saw
In the dreams we dream we dreamt all night,
In a night we know never was
But we try to pretend into having been.
For if it really passed, and the dreams really danced,
They could have danced to a song from yesterday,
Where we once danced for a different sun,
Whose clues of continuity lend mystery
To this morning’s sun we’ve never seen.

If the light and love of our newest dawns
Were mingled in any of our past nights,
The spangling would range infinite,
Splashing the sky with a million dazzling suns.
The shores of this sky at our islands’ fringe
Would dissolve all bounds of vision and voice,
Assuming all life we could ever know.
The fringe of forever would harmonize
Becoming and being, and we’d finally find peace.

But in art we find only intimations,
Whose frailness belies the dream of peace,
Implies storm and surge and the billowed fears.
But the battering wave is why we live,
To share its ride’s the vast purpose we dream,
And we see that life is not what we paint,
That our art is our souls’ respiration;
That we paint our lives at our breathing pace,
Conjure ourselves from the nothing we were,
Blaze with the light of the life that we are.

Diana Castro Website

venerdì 22 ottobre 2010

The last reincarnation Introduction

Reincarnation, by Wallace McRae

What is reincarnation? A cowboy asked his friend.
It starts, his old pal told him, when your life comes to an end.
They wash your neck and comb your hair and clean your fingernails,
And put you in a padded box away from life’s travails.

The box and you goes in a hole that’s been dug in the ground.
Reincarnation starts in when you’re planted neath that mound.
Them clods melt down, just like the box, and you who is inside.
And that’s when you begin your transformation ride.

And in a while the grass will grow upon your rendered mound,
Until some day, upon that spot, a lonely flower is found.
And then a horse may wander by and graze upon that flower
That once was you, and now has become your vegetated bower.

Now, the flower that the horse done eat, along with his other feed,
Makes bone and fat and muscle essential to the steed.
But there’s a part that he can’t use and so it passes through.
And there it lies upon the ground, this thing that once was you.

And if perchance, I should pass by and see this on the ground,
I’ll stop awhile and ponder at this object that I’ve found.
I’ll think about Reincarnation and life and death and such,
And come away concludin’, why, you ain’t changed all that much.
dianacastroart.jimdo.com