A first post. Does every wannabe blog poster face the same circular bout of self-editing and reflection that I am experiencing during my first foray into the world of web-logs? Nevermind. This morning, while browsing through other mediums for some musical atmosphere (I often take my cues from non-musical stimuli), I began reading some Poe. I remember in a green house on the west side of Vancouver, my mother gave me a book, I was very young, in fact this may very well have been my first non-kiddie book. Select short stories of Edgar Allen Poe. I don’t remember the edition or publisher but I think I read much of it, albeit most certainly not hip to the larger picture and themes buried in Poe’s writing. To be honest, I’m not quite sure how much I read, but the idea and flavour of the dark author has always been somehow with me, peeking from behind a tree, not too near, but never far enough away to become irrelevant. I can’t remember many of his stories with detail, so I’ve decided to revisit some. This morning, this rekindled interest led me to discover the work of Harry Clarke (1889-1931). An Irish artist who worked as an illustrator, and with stained glass. Wikipedia tells me Clarke became famous for illustrating an edition of Poe’s Tales of Mystery and Imagination. I’ve always had an appreciation for the spirit that lingers in much art from this era. The veering into the distorted areas of existence, the dimly lit corners of the mind where one relies on touch and smell. In the music of Debussy, the paintings of Klimt, in advertisements for Absynthe.
click here: harry clarke