New on Substack this morning: About Fadwah And other names 🤎🩵🤎
Figs from my tree. A truest and honest creation that has nothing to do with me, other than the watering here and there in the heat of summer. Bursting with life, and holding a firm promise of a guaranteed nearing death.
And after the recent days I conclude and say: Go ahead, let yourself be carried, uninterruptedly, by grief. No reason to postpone. *Grungy little book and mess, made by me. *Delicate embroidered vintage photo, by @dritzau
Day 4, and last, in Santa Barbara. My intention in guiding people in mixed media gatherings is quite simple. It’s about recollection. To help remember what was asked to be forgotten, urged silently, little by little, throughout all the years
Image transferring in Santa Barbara. Day 2. And I know this… There is no such thing as a full ‘breakup’, not from a place, a people, a time, a story, not from a person. No total disconnect from a history, a sweet present, nor fr
The casualness of disappearing limbs and other humanity’s parts.
Yes I do care New on Substack this morning. A new read and a listen. 💛🧡💛
There was joy last weekend. And Khalil Gibran famously said, “Your joy is your sorrow unmasked”.
We have a new thing in the country where I live. It’s called ‘Department of War’. At least there is honesty of intention in this and an admission. Finally. What are you making ‘new’ that is not commonly called visual a
Lines wafting on solid grounds. The most beautiful nonstick figures ever. No straight lines, only curvy. Inaccurate, but honest. Lines holding my own hands. Dressing me up with equal amounts of sweet nostalgia and fierce hope. Supporting me on the q
It’s hard to leave what is known for what is yet unknown. It’s hard to leave, whether where we are at the moment is good or bad, dark or light. To let go of what may be very liked in favor of what potentially can be beautifully loved.
From Enemy of the Sun By Samih al-Qasim: …You may take the last strip of my land,
Feed my youth to prison cells.
You may plunder my heritage.
You may burn my books, my poems
Or feed my flesh to the dogs.
You may spread a web of terror
On the
At last, but just as always, she found home, solace, in a dark shadow box where she couldn’t see the soul-less ones, and they didn’t know she was there. Only their very particular and all too familiar language was heard from the inside, p
New on orlyavineri.substack.com this morning: Scattered Bones and Connective Tissues 🩶🤎🖤
Knowing full well it may be different for others, work on canvases and in my garden doesn’t help me heal. It helps me pause, take a much needed rest from the daily and interminable work of healing. It is work that deeply occupies my soul and fr
If there could be only one thing that you feel is missing in this world, at this time, what would it be? Can you please say it? Everything is so violently heartbreaking. I don’t know how to speak of the pieces. And silence cannot be a refug
“Often the hands will solve a mystery that the intellect has struggled with in vain”. -Carl Jung
True and bountiful love of humans and between them requires the highest creative efforts and is the most honorable life pursuit.
I arrange things on surfaces to justify time’s inevitable passing and its at-times ruthless nature. To manage and make sense of at least one thing. One thing at a time.
Join me in November for the return of Passport to Journal, in Salem, Oregon. orlyavineri.com Paying and giving attention to forgotten, abandoned, and expired objects deepens our creative practices. Things dismissed or ignored for a long time hold e