Hide & Seek | قایم باشک

Cuando escuchaba la canción

Un faro cálido envió su señal

Pero escuchaba la canción,

[ENGLISH]

As I listened to that old and beautiful song

An incandescent lighthouse

But I listened to that song

Vocal by Mahsa Moqadam & Ali Alizade Haqiqi

Photo by Shahab Shahmohammadi

Poem by Limam Boicha

A girl asleep beneath a fishing net

Sandals the color of tangerines

Off the coast of Morocco

A moonlit downpour, God's skeleton

Bark, dory, punt, skiff

"Each with a soul full of scents"

Day after day spent shaping

A ball of wax into a canary

Little lamp, little lamp

The word "contraband" arrived

In English in the 16th century via Spanish

Throw your shadow overboard

Proverbs, blessings scratched into wood

The tar of my country better than the honey of others

Poem by Eduardo C. Corral

Photo by Me

The sounds

When your joys are of the sweetest

I’d not ask you to remember 

Sorrow’s far too bleak a burden

So, when roses scent the twilight

Photo by Zhenya Tigina

A wish by Joshua Henry Jones, Jr.

He was painting the sky. Not painting images of sun and clouds on canvas — no, slapping paint across the sky itself. It was a painting en plein air on plain air.

There was a theory behind it, of course, a theory so big it didn’t matter anymore, a map the size of the territory.

Go tell it to the birds, he would say. But the birds didn’t care. They were flying nonchalantly through the sky, and he would paint them, too, the redbirds blue and the bluebirds red.

Of course, the paint would drip everywhere. But didn’t it always? That’s what the rag was for, and the little blade. As someone said: If art was not difficult, it would not be art.

The critics hadn’t found the right word for it yet. Not exactly realism, and not quite surrealism — not even subrealism. But he couldn’t wait for the critics to make up their minds. He just kept painting, while the sun was out.

At the end of the day, his work was done. He put away his paints, and the sun put itself away, and the clouds likewise. It was so dark he couldn’t see the grass around his feet, no longer green but a ground of many colors, still wet, like some kaleidoscope of dew.

Ah, what would he paint tomorrow? A seascape? He thought of the water, wave after wave, and his small brush dabbling in the shallows, stroking out into the deep.

Art and Nature by Elton Glaser

Photo by Ilya Haharev

This is the world

This is the map of the forsaken world.

There are names each thing has for itself,

Map by Linda Hogan

Photo by Sara Matos

[INTRO]

[CHORUS]

[VERSE]

I see my own life.

The gates of experience fly by.

Vanity . . . shame.

To dare cross.

Throwing up walls of resistance

I have seen a lifetime

Intro by Rae Armantrout

Chorus by Ali Alizade Haqiqi

Verse by Natasha Head

Photo by Elia Bonetti

Vocal by Mahsa Moqadam

Y para el cruel que me arranca

And for the cruel one who tears from me

Photo by zdzisław beksiński

To God our twice-Revenger by John Wilson