I have decided to choose a piece of text to base my final major project narrative illustration on. This was after my inspiration from the artist Alex Simpson’s work basedon looking back in her childhood.  Here is a bank of text pieces I plan to use as inspiration for my work:

“when we were kids
laying around the lawn
on our

we often talked
we’d like to

we all
agreed on the

we’d all
like to die

none of us
done any

and now
we are hardly
any longer

we think more
not to


most of
prefer to
do it

under the


most of

have fucked
our lives
Charles Bukowski, You Get So Alone at Times That it Just Makes Sense

In the red-roofed stucco house of my childhood, the dining room was screened off by folding doors with small glass panes. Our neighbors the Bertins, who barely escaped Hitler, often joined us at table. One night their daughter said, In Vienna our dining room had doors like these. For a moment, we all sat quite still. And when Nath Nong, who has to live in Massachusetts now, saw a picture of green Cambodian fields she said, My father have animal like this, name krebey English? I told her, Water buffalo. She said, Very very good animal. She put her finger on the picture of the water buffalo and spoke its Khmer name once more. So today, when someone (my ex- husband) sends me a shiny picture of a church in Santa Cruz that lost its steeple in the recent earthquake there’s no reason at all for my throat to ache at the sight of a Pacific-blue sky and an old church three thousand miles away, because if I can only save enough money I can go back there any time and stay as long as I want. -Julie Alger
Night covers the pond with its wing. Under the ringed moon I can make out your face swimming among minnows and the small echoing stars. In the night air the surface of the pond is metal. Within, your eyes are open. They contain a memory I recognize, as though we had been children together. Our ponies grazed on the hill, they were gray with white markings. Now they graze with the dead who wait like children under their granite breastplates, lucid and helpless: The hills are far away. They rise up blacker than childhood. What do you think of, lying so quietly by the water? When you look that way I want to touch you, but do not, seeing as in another life we were of the same blood.
The Pond – Louise Gluck

First Memory

Long ago, I was wounded. I lived
to revenge myself
against my father, not
for what he was–
for what I was: from the beginning of time,
in childhood, I thought
that pain meant
I was not loved.
It meant I loved.

Louise Gluck

In Childhood…

things don’t die or remain damaged
but return: stumps grow back hands,
a head reconnects to a neck,
a whole corpse rises blushing and newly elastic.
Later this vision is not True:
the grandmother remains dead
not hibernating in a wolf’s belly.
Or the blue parakeet does not return
from the little grave in the fern garden
though one may wake in the morning
thinking mother’s call is the bird.
Or maybe the bird is with grandmother
inside light. Or grandmother was the bird
and is now the dog
gnawing on the chair leg.
Where do the gone things go
when the child is old enough
to walk herself to school,
her playmates already
pumping so high the swing hiccups?     – Kimiko Hahn

For My Daughter Written by: David Ignatow

When I die choose a star and name it after me that you may know I have not abandoned or forgotten you. You were such a star to me, following you through birth and childhood, my hand in your hand. When I die choose a star and name it after me so that I may shine down on you, until you join me in darkness and silence together.


At the moment I’m finding it harder than expected to find pieces that work for me. I’m hoping to find a piece imagery that makes reference to the themes I have discussed in my project proposal, as originally I want to look at themes of nostalgia and how I can link it to my own nostalgia of an age before the internet. By doing that I’m finding text that interests me and I could see myself making work on.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s