tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-51883798931890370772024-03-13T04:24:46.411-07:00Cartophile's LogField Notes / Illustrations / Ramblings
Evie Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05683009162886797936noreply@blogger.comBlogger25125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5188379893189037077.post-60823641780647788272023-04-06T02:15:00.013-07:002023-04-09T14:37:02.165-07:00Wild Horses<p>Set alight by paradisiacal sunsets, the hamlet reached into the ocean, its wild meadows shaping New York’s most eastern tip.</p><p>Beneath the dunes, we learned to taste freedom as readily available as the fragrance of salt and pine, while following ancient trails worn down by Montaukett fishermen.</p>When winter burned into the windblown hamlet, horses were pulled in from the moors, while snow ploughs cut paths through the thick blanket that submerged the surrounding towns.<div><br /><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAoB-M6hTc4-2ejlYJkV4O_Mxf25z6rTNe1Ja_nAk30lg9IInxgpUd9Ju-JaMi_UAkLrT7NEw0O_O9aHbyQCz5Hh1IFTuzH2RbPycrs4dxF2c3bWlTfdAyAVWgS8ZgdCa0oKanZXb3YkmLJlUEuUxMssSRkQU0eN5l7YiiX4wTZUQ51KBCXEpDqxYR/s960/home.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="640" height="340" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAoB-M6hTc4-2ejlYJkV4O_Mxf25z6rTNe1Ja_nAk30lg9IInxgpUd9Ju-JaMi_UAkLrT7NEw0O_O9aHbyQCz5Hh1IFTuzH2RbPycrs4dxF2c3bWlTfdAyAVWgS8ZgdCa0oKanZXb3YkmLJlUEuUxMssSRkQU0eN5l7YiiX4wTZUQ51KBCXEpDqxYR/w282-h340/home.jpg" width="282" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>The train curled around the coast and under the rolling hills of the Paumanok Path, its trail markers pointing ever onwards. Gliding through the heartland, alongside half-timbered houses and villages bearing cryptic names, a ghostly whistle sliced the night before we barrelled through a tunnel and Long Island disappeared from sight.<br /><br />The city stretched beneath us, a canvas of smudged neon lights slowly dimming to blackness as the plane climbed into the sky.<br /><br />Suspended between worlds, we flew ever deeper into the darkness before the first amber rays warmed the sky and early risers watched the pale streaks of light cut through clouds, setting them ablaze.<br /><br />Stories whistled in the morning breeze. I felt them sting my face as I walked through the crunching puddles.<br /><br />The brook crept along the edge of the grove before hurtling over limestone rocks, while the farmyard emerged ghostlike from the mist, its outbuildings dutifully returning to life.<br /><br />From behind haggart walls, cows stretched their heads over barn gates tied up with orange twine, and the chestnut mare that my grandmother said has wild eyes stared back at me from behind the ramshackle half door.</div><div><br /><br />Evie Connolly © updated 2023</div></div>Evie Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05683009162886797936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5188379893189037077.post-8955106264091732832023-04-04T12:03:00.005-07:002023-04-06T02:19:16.323-07:00Leaving Nancy<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Collaboration with John Joyce</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/I6hlxg7BLl8" width="429" youtube-src-id="I6hlxg7BLl8"></iframe></div><br /> <p></p>Evie Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05683009162886797936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5188379893189037077.post-43082205016813156942023-04-04T11:59:00.008-07:002023-04-06T02:47:34.635-07:00Remembering the Lost<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Collaboration with Silva Zanoyan Marjanian</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="423" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/ygyfPjHXfTc" width="574" youtube-src-id="ygyfPjHXfTc"></iframe></div><br /> <p></p>Evie Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05683009162886797936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5188379893189037077.post-8968118220959943612023-04-04T11:48:00.009-07:002023-04-06T02:18:43.863-07:00Serenity<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The Beautiful Mon River Trail </div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="341" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/B5Qr1S0_Gao" width="453" youtube-src-id="B5Qr1S0_Gao"></iframe></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /> <p></p>Evie Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05683009162886797936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5188379893189037077.post-21886909151525138792023-04-04T11:29:00.004-07:002023-04-06T02:46:35.922-07:00Shades<p> <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span></span>Collaboration with Trian Kayhatu</p><p><br /></p><p><a href="https://www.musicxray.com/xrays/858450">Shades</a></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.musicxray.com/xrays/858450" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="339" data-original-width="509" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3F3JKQL2nLx2TJGZLOfVuFBYRFWnz9b6nO35JkwmnJYctDvyYyi58rdpLyjq_hzO8W-UHzq6haIi6xYs-CNQlAejvhCAuH5ssfuhe8PDFrLzv8Zcgqp2GmUD-X5_XIB6GGwH_7XYSlF6B2vDQvdFx3lO95DqUenMasbMYSc8luQ51-8MKzkVf0qyf/s320/spirituality%20(1).jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Evie Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05683009162886797936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5188379893189037077.post-67597438840059059822023-04-04T11:08:00.004-07:002023-04-06T02:44:47.835-07:00Home<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Collaboration with Silva Zanoyan Marjanian</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/8XDV_IYv4H8" width="387" youtube-src-id="8XDV_IYv4H8"></iframe></div><div><br /></div>Evie Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05683009162886797936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5188379893189037077.post-77589487455097754362023-04-04T10:52:00.007-07:002023-04-06T02:46:53.920-07:00The Escape<p><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span> </span>Collaboration with Trian Kayhatu</p><p> <a href="https://www.musicxray.com/xrays/858463" target="_blank">The Escape</a><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.musicxray.com/xrays/858463" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="415" data-original-width="450" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT9x5geSdJT8NNPkTZoAVWsP4ZkPLBbCr1ADTCZh46PBtyIPefU497ZLD8vzjrWIrSS5V6i5wWvacpdQlE4-AiSAhidpCNyR-M08H68PH6NMMDjdhfxWusAOT0chQRKMSjG9nBza44dgnYcHDLZ3qj97FN1iMRVVO-QEuWbyq9UZm4e7ZGetLBiTkE/s320/escape.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p>Evie Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05683009162886797936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5188379893189037077.post-73568563221450734582019-02-11T09:34:00.004-08:002023-04-10T13:39:10.570-07:00<br />
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a student, he learned to befriend the city, the sirens and traffic, the
twisting iron carriages and steam flumes. The city horse became his companion.
Together they navigated the concrete grid, traversing vibrating sidewalks and
zebra crossings, exploring Central Park's looping bridle paths.</span></div>
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Over time, as obstinate dog walkers and vainglorious joggers seized the old
wagon paths, the war horse came to be bred outside the city. </span></span></div><div style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
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Evie Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05683009162886797936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5188379893189037077.post-55851147145477646522019-02-11T08:48:00.003-08:002020-04-06T05:33:06.509-07:00SolaceThrough smudged paint and charcoal, he found safe haven within a city whose stories are dreamed up by runaways.<br />
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Later, they followed him into the shining firmament, and, between the glass towers and streams of traffic, found solace.<br />
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<br />Evie Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05683009162886797936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5188379893189037077.post-51618442619656726922019-02-11T08:00:00.003-08:002019-02-11T08:49:39.744-08:00Early adventures were confined to the farmyard, where we'd gallop on sticks around the silage barn. The outbuildings with their ramshackle windows and half doors were street houses brimming with hustle and bustle, and the haggart, a market square that held us securely inside its crumbling walls.<br />
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As we grew, the river became a sea we'd cross with makeshift rafts to explore the wet splinter of woodland on the horizon. With rope strings, we'd swing into its heartland and make safe caves under fallen branches.<br />
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We ached for the intimacy of the city, where friends were just a skip and jump away instead of across fields and over barbed wire fences. We longed to blend into the milieu of sameness, where our country words and ways dissolved into the ether and we became just like everyone else.<br />
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<br />Evie Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05683009162886797936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5188379893189037077.post-4131530248234847582019-02-11T07:32:00.003-08:002019-02-11T08:19:01.282-08:00Cabinet of CuriositiesWith their bright colours and smudged postmark portals, they were miniature works of art, whose albums we'd file meticulously on library shelves. <span style="text-align: center;">They shared space with adventure novels and worn out encyclopedia personalised with crayon signatures. </span><br />
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On the top shelf was an antique sewing box, its contents an assortment of postcards and letters stack tied with string. The faded ink with its neat curls contained stories we knew not to read.Evie Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05683009162886797936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5188379893189037077.post-52158563102496700742018-08-15T11:49:00.001-07:002018-08-15T13:27:39.453-07:00in the long grass<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<br />Evie Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05683009162886797936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5188379893189037077.post-43106680781447132412017-12-16T04:16:00.002-08:002017-12-16T04:16:42.184-08:00<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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Evie Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05683009162886797936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5188379893189037077.post-63416161454514737392017-12-16T02:38:00.001-08:002017-12-16T04:10:45.286-08:00new worlds arising with the sun<br />
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<br />Evie Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05683009162886797936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5188379893189037077.post-2861128140199439352017-06-08T02:31:00.000-07:002018-08-15T12:29:53.151-07:00the ancient urge of scavengingrubies, emeralds and saphires at Rhineshark Bay<br />
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~ That ancient urge of scavenging among seaweed and whitened timbers like the homesick refugees of a long war ~<br />
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Loren Eiseley<br />
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<br />Evie Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05683009162886797936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5188379893189037077.post-13423811861633865412017-06-06T01:36:00.003-07:002018-08-15T12:30:49.697-07:00make a poem that does not disturb the silence from which it cameThe following is an excerpt from a poem by novelist, poet, environmental activist, cultural critic and farmer, Wendell Berry. It's titled, 'How To Be a Poet', but it could just as well be titled, "How To Be a Human Being'.<br />
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Ironically, I am sharing it through social media, so reading it depends on electric wire and screens - the very things Berry suggests we shun. The poem is so affecting, I think it escapes the irony.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">image: Cartophiles Log ©</td></tr>
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Breathe with unconditional breath <br />
the unconditioned air. <br />
Shun electric wire. <br />
Communicate slowly. Live <br />
a three-dimensioned life; <br />
stay away from screens. <br />
Stay away from anything <br />
that obscures the place it is in. <br />
There are no unsacred places; <br />
there are only sacred places <br />
and desecrated places. <br />
<br />
Accept what comes from silence. <br />
Make the best you can of it. <br />
Of the little words that come <br />
out of the silence, like prayers <br />
prayed back to the one who prays, <br />
make a poem that does not disturb <br />
the silence from which it came</div>
Evie Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05683009162886797936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5188379893189037077.post-53448139850201137862017-02-06T07:02:00.002-08:002017-02-16T03:03:13.855-08:00Chalybeate<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">from a visit to Gorthaclode</span><br />
<br />
Do truths find their way home? Are there imprints left behind from centuries before, when smoke and steel drove paths beneath amaranthine skies, through rolling forests ablaze with oranges and golds? The spa well spills its secrets into the pools of colour collecting in the millrace and along the weir and in the trout streams. <br />
<br />
In the shadow of a blasting furnace, iron water was collected by the bucketload and pilgrims soaked in the chalybeate spring. The Gorthaclode Spa was hailed as miraculous before events and circumstance dissolved a ritual into history and stories were hidden in the rivers and streams. <br />
<br />
Does a landscape summon its stories home? Does an element return to its source over and over?<br />
<br />
Sitting along a pathway at Gorthaclode are wagons loaded with steel shackles waiting patiently for an old railroad to return to life. Sharing a history with the crystalline rock birthed in the soil and pulled home by the lodestone buried in the hills, is this celestial metal merely finding its way home and are we merely the transporters?<br />
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<br />
A lodestone is a wonderful thing...one of its remarkable virtues is that the
ancients considered it to be a living soul in the sky, in the globes, in
the stars, in the sun and in the moon.<br />
<div class="quotation">
(William Gilbert)<br />
</div>
<div class="quotation">
</div>
<div class="quotation">
<div class="quotation">
More than the diamond Koh-i-noor, which glitters among their crown
jewels, they prize the dull pebble which is wiser than a man, whose
poles turn themselves to the poles of the world, and whose axis is
parallel to the axis of the world. Now, their toys are steam and
galvanism. </div>
<div class="quotation">
(Ralph Waldo Emerson)<br />
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="quotation">
<br /></div>
<div class="quotation">
<br /></div>
<span class="_Tgc">© 2017 Evie Connolly</span>Evie Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05683009162886797936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5188379893189037077.post-60137707061481650042017-02-02T14:51:00.000-08:002017-02-07T15:39:00.521-08:00Emergence<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Journey between Viking ports</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Ireland, February 2017</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<b>There is no univeral tick tock.</b><br />
<br />
'The dividing line between past, present, and future is an illusion', according to Einstein. There is a profound link between motion through space and the passage of time - the more we have of one, the less we have of another. Physics tells us that the atomic clock has the ability to record this difference.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HGuxRedkiA8/WJPDq3M1YHI/AAAAAAAAAqw/yhvGR1ZNczwUIGVx9nyifsUf7gtW3gAmACLcB/s1600/IMG_20170202_140610.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-HGuxRedkiA8/WJPDq3M1YHI/AAAAAAAAAqw/yhvGR1ZNczwUIGVx9nyifsUf7gtW3gAmACLcB/s320/IMG_20170202_140610.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">'Time Portal'<br />
Irish Film Institute, Temple Bar <br />
<span class="_Tgc">© Cartophile's Log</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
There is a certain emotional comfort associated with train travel - it takes us on a time recorded journey inside a capsule weaving its way from place to place. With greater opportunity for reflection, the internal film can be juxtaposed with external images and sounds. The framed landscape at our shoulder affords us the space to repaint and reframe the internal one.</blockquote>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SjAmyB5nHJA/WJPD-Q-eEWI/AAAAAAAAAq4/mCfIWriykjoi26rETEein2B5quHrQPLzQCLcB/s1600/IMG_20170202_173806.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-SjAmyB5nHJA/WJPD-Q-eEWI/AAAAAAAAAq4/mCfIWriykjoi26rETEein2B5quHrQPLzQCLcB/s320/IMG_20170202_173806.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="_Tgc">between Heuston & Plunkett Stations </span><br />
<span class="_Tgc">© Cartophile's Log</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HGFVVEGlRTg/WJPE4132-bI/AAAAAAAAArI/U8FSEPGzHGQ06E_7MER-88MeCq58z_15QCLcB/s1600/IMG_20170201_181520.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HGFVVEGlRTg/WJPE4132-bI/AAAAAAAAArI/U8FSEPGzHGQ06E_7MER-88MeCq58z_15QCLcB/s320/IMG_20170201_181520.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="_Tgc">County Waterford </span><br />
<span class="_Tgc">© Cartophile's Log</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="_Tgc">County Waterford </span><br />
<span class="_Tgc">© Cartophile's Log</span></td></tr>
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<br />
I am reminded of C. Wright Mills' reflections in <i>The Sociolgical Imagination</i>. He said if we are drawn towards a specific object, such as a make of car, we will begin to find it everywhere. We seem drawn towards finding and linking specific shapes, colours, numbers, patterns, etc. It doesn't make coincidences or experiences of synchronicity any less noteworthy. It means that we are tapping into perhaps infinite constellations of possiblities of being, a divine geometry whereby we are the magicians as well as the audience. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-YhwsxjYxkt8/WJPH8zrY_xI/AAAAAAAAArw/Yzdw9TIqzO8yQynrOTkjQ0u_I1hR3doQgCLcB/s1600/IMG_20170202_140639.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-YhwsxjYxkt8/WJPH8zrY_xI/AAAAAAAAArw/Yzdw9TIqzO8yQynrOTkjQ0u_I1hR3doQgCLcB/s320/IMG_20170202_140639.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="_Tgc">Irish Film Institute, Temple Bar </span><br />
<span class="_Tgc">© Cartophile's Log</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
According to quantum mechanics and what is considered the most beautiful experiment, 'The Observer Effect', a light particle can travel through two individual apertures at the same time until we neglect to observe which aperture it passes through, whereby it appears to interfere with itself and behave as a wave by passing through both at once. In other words, a system exists in all possible states until we observe that it is only in one specific state! This gifts us the opportunity to explore many worlds and to paint many canvasses.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AKxcyVLkyNY/WJPHHNy6O2I/AAAAAAAAArs/oX1_6XOvHec0Ixm7tfHeGVHeQGIjlcV-gCEw/s1600/IMG_20170127_182350.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AKxcyVLkyNY/WJPHHNy6O2I/AAAAAAAAArs/oX1_6XOvHec0Ixm7tfHeGVHeQGIjlcV-gCEw/s320/IMG_20170127_182350.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="_Tgc">'canvas of fairlights encased in glass'</span><br />
<span class="_Tgc">County Waterford </span><br />
<span class="_Tgc">© Cartophile's Log</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
<span class="_Tgc">© 2017 Evie Connolly</span>Evie Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05683009162886797936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5188379893189037077.post-44006363434016977912017-01-31T13:38:00.001-08:002017-08-21T15:05:30.849-07:00PennantsWedged into burrows<br />
across a blue shale<br />
the hinged shell<br />
hides its soft form<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZhUKfZ5Ra4o/WJEF_56RymI/AAAAAAAAAgs/Qgg0nuJcJMYYSAmqwQ-3ULxvywChxD1zgCLcB/s1600/IMG_20170129_164147.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZhUKfZ5Ra4o/WJEF_56RymI/AAAAAAAAAgs/Qgg0nuJcJMYYSAmqwQ-3ULxvywChxD1zgCLcB/s320/IMG_20170129_164147.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.6719999313355px; line-height: 16.4736003875732px;">Fossilized<br /> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.6719999313355px; line-height: 16.4736003875732px;"><span class="st" data-hveid="38" data-ved="0ahUKEwjT993b2u7RAhVKJMAKHc-NCXEQ4EUIJjAC">© </span>2017 Cartophile's Log</span></td></tr>
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As sailors lament<br />
over selkie threads<br />
on gold dusted shores<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kupeNBeN8is/WJGlsQMqAlI/AAAAAAAAAhg/HZdrKg91vV0OwkVWDgRH2VlfXfNPgPa8ACPcB/s1600/IMG_20170129_194919.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kupeNBeN8is/WJGlsQMqAlI/AAAAAAAAAhg/HZdrKg91vV0OwkVWDgRH2VlfXfNPgPa8ACPcB/s320/IMG_20170129_194919.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.6719999313355px; line-height: 16.4736003875732px;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.6719999313355px; line-height: 16.4736003875732px;"><span class="st" data-hveid="38" data-ved="0ahUKEwjT993b2u7RAhVKJMAKHc-NCXEQ4EUIJjAC">© </span>2017 Cartophile's Log</span></td></tr>
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<br />
An ocean's stories<br />
are stored in its stone<br />
in its shapes and shadows<br />
in its pirates' lore<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zJ8ttB8561E/WJGoyuIjGcI/AAAAAAAAAhw/Q8KdV004ADEriO4ptXSq6knJB5wOA32cwCLcB/s1600/IMG_20170129_195633.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zJ8ttB8561E/WJGoyuIjGcI/AAAAAAAAAhw/Q8KdV004ADEriO4ptXSq6knJB5wOA32cwCLcB/s320/IMG_20170129_195633.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pirate's Brew<br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.6719999313355px; line-height: 16.4736003875732px;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.6719999313355px; line-height: 16.4736003875732px;"><span class="st" data-hveid="38" data-ved="0ahUKEwjT993b2u7RAhVKJMAKHc-NCXEQ4EUIJjAC">© </span>2017 Cartophile's Log</span></td></tr>
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<br />
Shanties are woven<br />
from rockweed<br />
clinging to the shore<br />
from brutal and brutish<br />
the daggers and crosses<br />
lying across its floor<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IizhGOt8CVw/WJGpvzOYyTI/AAAAAAAAAh4/MQxatGfUERgLGFvnJqQp1kP1rcT5lQklwCLcB/s1600/IMG_20170129_194146.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IizhGOt8CVw/WJGpvzOYyTI/AAAAAAAAAh4/MQxatGfUERgLGFvnJqQp1kP1rcT5lQklwCLcB/s320/IMG_20170129_194146.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.6719999313355px; line-height: 16.4736003875732px;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.6719999313355px; line-height: 16.4736003875732px;"><span class="st" data-hveid="38" data-ved="0ahUKEwjT993b2u7RAhVKJMAKHc-NCXEQ4EUIJjAC">© </span>2017 Cartophile's Log</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Nets are adrift<br />
and sea whistle slips<br />
between the desert cays<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wVk2DU-fHqI/WJGqSGCBw_I/AAAAAAAAAh8/-sX-zp_8stI1wyo_iCY9iGx2wo-cqbEEgCLcB/s1600/IMG_20170129_170331.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-wVk2DU-fHqI/WJGqSGCBw_I/AAAAAAAAAh8/-sX-zp_8stI1wyo_iCY9iGx2wo-cqbEEgCLcB/s320/IMG_20170129_170331.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">White Lace of the Moon<br />
<span class="st" data-hveid="38" data-ved="0ahUKEwjT993b2u7RAhVKJMAKHc-NCXEQ4EUIJjAC">© 2017 Cartophile's Log</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: left;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The compass is set<br />
needle balanced on its pivot<br />
now, to learn the points<br />
and, on waking<br />
to cast the sounding line<br />
<br />
<span class="st" data-hveid="38" data-ved="0ahUKEwjT993b2u7RAhVKJMAKHc-NCXEQ4EUIJjAC">© 2017</span> <br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Garlands</i></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CXT0DCv7GBA/WJGrTcTZsEI/AAAAAAAAAiI/TxJ81OfrP0MwE-mVH1A9WFixVV4kVrW_QCLcB/s1600/IMG_20170129_193050.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CXT0DCv7GBA/WJGrTcTZsEI/AAAAAAAAAiI/TxJ81OfrP0MwE-mVH1A9WFixVV4kVrW_QCLcB/s320/IMG_20170129_193050.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="st" data-hveid="38" data-ved="0ahUKEwjT993b2u7RAhVKJMAKHc-NCXEQ4EUIJjAC">© 2017 Cartophile's Log</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="st" data-hveid="38" data-ved="0ahUKEwjT993b2u7RAhVKJMAKHc-NCXEQ4EUIJjAC">© 2017 Cartophile's Log</span></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: , "helveticaneue" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 18px; line-height: 24px;"> © 2017 </span>Evie Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05683009162886797936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5188379893189037077.post-24149235853428358562017-01-29T15:21:00.000-08:002017-02-05T13:44:33.915-08:00The Sea HorseFollowing a path back through time where horses once raced along its shoreline while echoes of an earlier tragedy reverbate across the rocks and dunes, we navigated the marshlands of the <span class="st">Cúl Trá at Rhineshark Bay.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="_Tgc">© 2017 Cartophile's Log</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="_Tgc"><br /></span></td></tr>
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<br />
In
1816, the Sea Horse transport ship carrying 260 soldiers and their
families home from the Napoleonic wars floundered in nearby Tramore Bay. 363
men, women and children perished in the tragedy, one observed from the beach by a gathering crowd helpless to assist. January 30th marks the 201st anniversary of the Sea Horse tragedy.<br />
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In 1853, the old racecourse was built on 263 acres of reclaimed land at Rhineshark Bay; however,<span class="st"> by 1911, it too had </span><span class="st">succumbed to the ravages of the sea, and meetings had to be abandoned for higher ground.</span><br />
<span class="st"></span><br />
During low tide, the remains of the racecourse are visible as are the remains of the neighbouring old military barracks, which rises from the water and stretches like sharks' fins across the lagoon.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="_Tgc">© 2017 Cartophile's Log</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
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<span class="st"> </span><span class="st"></span> <br />
<span class="_Tgc">© 2017 </span>Evie Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05683009162886797936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5188379893189037077.post-53555409569288340672017-01-28T16:36:00.000-08:002017-01-29T14:02:41.355-08:00Abandoned Mines <div style="text-align: left;">
An archipelago of silver lakes, phosphoresecent rain puddles stretch like stepping stones along the cliff edge. Thinly traced lines link old mining villages of the Copper Coast. Fringing steep precipices above the Atlantic, we nervously edge past mine shafts and crumbling walls. Rumours of an ancient church keep us searching for imprints upon stones tumbling towards the sea.<br />
<br />
<i><br /></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Imagined lakes</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>of copper and silver,</i><br />
<i> </i><i>scattered fragments</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>frozen in time</i></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Me2UKIv0aDc/WI0uodfQGSI/AAAAAAAAAUo/YRUD_lfSmXYSDtheVmMu-tgn9Pqs9jgagCLcB/s1600/2017%2B-%2B1%25287%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Me2UKIv0aDc/WI0uodfQGSI/AAAAAAAAAUo/YRUD_lfSmXYSDtheVmMu-tgn9Pqs9jgagCLcB/s400/2017%2B-%2B1%25287%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">rain puddles at Bonmahon</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12.8000001907349px;">© 2017 Cartophile's Log</span></td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i></i><br />
<i><br /></i><i> </i><br />
<i>Shallow tunnels</i><br />
<i>to </i><i>vanished worlds,</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>whisper in colour </i><br />
<i>as light drowns earth</i></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">© 2017 Cartophile's Log<i> </i></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">© 2017 Cartophile's Log</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Jm8nKqLb6Os/WI00XMju9cI/AAAAAAAAAWg/3-liQ2lgdKk7hxfJghlBjxgiESg18SnhgCLcB/s1600/2017%2B-%2B1%25289%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="307" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Jm8nKqLb6Os/WI00XMju9cI/AAAAAAAAAWg/3-liQ2lgdKk7hxfJghlBjxgiESg18SnhgCLcB/s400/2017%2B-%2B1%25289%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">© 2017 Cartophile's Log</td></tr>
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<br />
(Images from a walk along the Copper Coast, County Waterford, Ireland where a metal mining industry flourished in the mid 19th century)</div>
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<br />
<span class="st" data-hveid="38" data-ved="0ahUKEwibloDluefRAhVLIsAKHeR2BzYQ4EUIJjAC">© 2017</span>Evie Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05683009162886797936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5188379893189037077.post-24913111690091333762017-01-27T07:46:00.001-08:002017-01-29T14:05:47.010-08:00Sacred GroundOn the approach of the anniverary of Yeats' passing, there was an invitation to share thoughts on 'He Wishes For The Cloths of Heaven' during a walk along<span class="st"> the Cúl Trá</span> in County Waterford.<br />
<br />
<br />
<h4>
Weaving together myth, memory and divinity in 'He Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven', the poet's longing conjures an internal and external landscape rich in colour and texture, a landscape that we may find ourselves within, a dreamed up world spread beneath our feet.</h4>
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<br />
HAD I the heavens' embroidered cloths, '<br />
Enwrought with golden and silver light,<br />
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths<br />
Of night and light and the half-light,<br />
I would spread the cloths under your feet:<br />
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;<br />
I have spread my dreams under your feet;<br />
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams<br />
<br />
<br />
William Butler Yeats<br />
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<br />
<span class="st" data-hveid="38" data-ved="0ahUKEwibloDluefRAhVLIsAKHeR2BzYQ4EUIJjAC">© 2017</span>Evie Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05683009162886797936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5188379893189037077.post-78862674409030113582017-01-27T02:03:00.002-08:002023-04-04T09:05:31.280-07:00Art Undone<div class="ELUvyf">
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there's been a single blue line of crayon drawn across a wall in every house....</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">© 2017 cartophile's log</td></tr>
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Several years ago, a team of psychologists led by Takahiko Masuda analyzed artwork from across East Asian and Western cultures, with particular focus on paintings created between the 16th and 18th centuries. Masuda was looking to measure something in particular - the height of the horizon line. What emerged was that the horizon line in East Asian art was repeatedly higher.</div>
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Masuda maintained that the placement of the horizon in a piece of
art is a doorway to exploring the social construction of the artist's culture. A high horizon line means that the field of information is deep, with greater room for contextual details. The visual layout of Western art allows for less background space and the arrangement of one or two objects in the foreground, indicating that Western culture is more marked by logical thinking and analytical reasoning. This points to a culture placing responsibility for the creation of events in the world in the hands of its individuals. The visual layout of East Asian art highlights a holistic reflective style. In sharing more background elements, East Asian art is less focused on one or two particular objects, indicating a belief that various external forces beyond the control of individuals are reponsible for the occurance of events within society.<br />
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The same team of psychologists took their reasearch to schools in both Canada and Japan and asked children to create a piece of visual art. The experiment reflected the team's earlier findings - Japanese children's (and adult's) art is more context rich while the art of their Western counterparts focuses more on singular objects in the foreground.</div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BveXtzf1yE0/WIsatrENfII/AAAAAAAAAL0/wjATtKL9aK8rmAFRuQeJcObCE-e0DFkGgCLcB/s1600/art%2B%25282%2529.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="141" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BveXtzf1yE0/WIsatrENfII/AAAAAAAAAL0/wjATtKL9aK8rmAFRuQeJcObCE-e0DFkGgCLcB/s400/art%2B%25282%2529.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">collages by Japanese (L) & Canadian (R) children</td></tr>
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<i><b>Sources</b>: </i><br />
<br />
Senzaki, S., Masuda, T., & Nand, K. (2014) Holistic versus
analytic expressions in artworks: Cross-cultural differences and
similarities in drawings and collages by Canadian and Japanese
school-age children. <i>Journal of Cross-Cultural Psychology,</i> <i>45</i>(8), 1297-1316<br />
<br />
Masuda, T., Gonzales, R., Kwan, L., & Nisbett, R.E. (2008)
Culture and aesthetic preference: Comparing the attention to context of
East Asians and Americans.<i> Personality and Social Psychology Bulletin, 34</i>(9), 1260-1275<br />
<br />
© 2017</div>
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Evie Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05683009162886797936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5188379893189037077.post-14195443029521728252017-01-27T00:36:00.001-08:002017-02-18T02:42:40.202-08:00the boundariless domain<div class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name">
<br /></div>
<div class="post-header">
Historic Saintes Maries de la Mer is the sacred festive ground for the
annual veneration of Saint Sara, saint of the nomadic peoples. This
little seaside town in the Camargue region of Provence, France welcomes
pilgrims from the four corners of Europe and beyond to venerate the
Black Sara during the last week of May each year as well as the Sunday
closest to October 22nd.</div>
<br />
Romanies, Manouches, Travellers, Tziganes and Gitans fill the streets
with music and colour, culminating in the procession to the sea on foot
and horseback to celebrate the arrival by sea of three very important
saints who are deeply embedded in the life of Saint Sara - they are Mary
Magdalene, Mary Salome and Mary of Clopas.<br />
<br />
The bearers go into the sea to symbolize the arrival of the Marys. Some
stories tell of Sara seeing the Marys arrive by boat. The sea was rough,
and the boat threatened to founder. Mary Salome threw her cloak on the
waves and, using it as a raft, Sarah floated towards the Saints and
helped them reach land by praying. Other stories tell of Sara being a
collector of alms who worked for the Three Marys.<br />
<br />
After blessings and to the accompaniment of music and the set of bells,
the Procession returns to the church. Later that day, there is a
ceremony of bringing the reliquaries back up to the 'High Chapel'.<br />
<br />
Violins, guitars, dance and singsong light up the evenings at Saintes
Maries de la Mer. A multitude of small candles are lit during the
festival and children held up in front of the statues as prayers are
recited.<br />
<br />
The music, colour, artistry and reverence contained within the
celebrations reflect the spirit of the nomadic peoples, eternal pilgrims
on the world's roads (many are fervent travellers of El Camino de
Santiago). Indeed, within the world of art and literature, the Gypsy has
for centuries represented the artist's nomadic soul, their connection
with the spirit world and their resistance to imposed boundaries and
materialism.<br />
<br />
This free spiritedness undoubtedly attracted the attention of writers
and artists such as Hemingway and Picasso who were visitors to Saintes
Maries de la Mer. The painter Augustus John fell in love with Provence,
which he claimed "had been for years the goal of my dreams" as he did
with the Gypsy and Romany culture. John relinquished much of his worldly
pleasures to pursue a nomadic lifestyle and learn the Romany language.<br />
<br />
Taking the sturdy Camargue ponies through the wetlands of Provence and
along the streets of Saintes Maries de la Mer, hatless (unrecommended,
though understandably in keeping with an ancient tradition), there was
the feeling of physical and spiritual freedom - the boundariless domain
of the nomad and the artist.<br />
<br />
<span class="_Tgc">© 2017</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_F21auDLlz4/WIsEt8kTifI/AAAAAAAAALI/uy8eH13eTa8uZTuqhxufHfmSw_MEzb0xgCLcB/s1600/beauty.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_F21auDLlz4/WIsEt8kTifI/AAAAAAAAALI/uy8eH13eTa8uZTuqhxufHfmSw_MEzb0xgCLcB/s400/beauty.png" width="362" /> </a></td><td style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Encampment at Dartmouth by Augustus John</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NYVvEoA2klo/WIsGUBG_meI/AAAAAAAAALU/YzNXVAol000m8FjUaMPJSE92vS5QqxS4ACLcB/s1600/Camargue.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NYVvEoA2klo/WIsGUBG_meI/AAAAAAAAALU/YzNXVAol000m8FjUaMPJSE92vS5QqxS4ACLcB/s400/Camargue.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">http://www.saintesmaries.com/eng/<br />
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Evie Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05683009162886797936noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5188379893189037077.post-45012462391489073492017-01-26T08:10:00.002-08:002017-01-28T11:06:58.459-08:00<div class="fu5e3b qhIQqf">
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When the Way governs the world, the proud stallions drag dung carriages. When the Way is lost to the world, war horses are bred outside the city.<br />
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Laozi</div>
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Evie Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05683009162886797936noreply@blogger.com0