Spotkanie Galerii Foksal 1968

Warszawa, 1968, appearing miraculously under the name Hanna Ptaszkowska. The Galeria Foksal, with Henryk Stazewski propped on the floor, holding forth to a gathering of young people. That's Hanna herself, just behind, and Prorok (Prophet), the leader of a group (the only group?) of Polish hippies, his rabbit pelt vest--an investment in the era. Unknown girl to his right, too tall for Gabryela. Likewise the gaunt type leaning on edge of door. Myself, with pipe, tip of rapidograph pen, drawing...

Spotkanie...

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Note added September 2014: The setting here is a "hippie commune" in Ozarów, just outside Warszawa, not the Foksal Gallery.  Photo by Eustachy Kossakowski.. For other photos see Eustachy Kossakowski Archive at the Museum of Modern Art in Warszawa (Muzeum Sztuki Nowoczesnej w Warszawie). The following year was my exhibition at Galerie Foksal (September 1969).

Tadeusz Kantor

(photo by Eustachy Kossakowski)

Edward Krasinski

(photo by Eustachy Kossakowski)

Marina Tzvetaeva

Don't misunderstand me: I live not to write poems, I write poems in order to live. (Who would make writing poems an end in itself?) I write not because I know, but but in order to know. Until I've written about a thing (have looked at it), it doesn't exist. My way of knowing is through expression--there's the knowledge, right from under the pen. Until I've written a thing, I don't think about it. (You're the same, you know.) The pen channels experiences of what is extant, but dormant. Just as the Sybil doesn't know until the words come. The Sybil knows immediately. The word is the background of the thing in us. The word is the path to the thing, and not the other way around. (If it were the other way around, we would need words, not things, and the ultimate goal--is the thing.)

Marina Tzvetaeva, in a letter to Boris Pasternak, 1926

Campos de Soria

VII

Colinas plateadas,
grises alcores, cárdenas roquedas
por donde traza el Duero
su curva de ballesta
en torno a Soria, oscuros encinares,
ariscos pedregales, calvas sierras,
caminos blancos y álamos del río,
tardes de Soria, mística y guerrera,
hoy siento por vosotros, en el fondo
del corazón, tristeza,
tristeza que es amor! ¡Campos de Soria
donde parece que las rocas sueñan,
conmigo vais! ¡Colinas plateadas,
grises alcores, cárdenas roquedas!...

Antonio Machado

Noche Porteña

March or April of 1961? Arriving in the airport at Ezeiza, after 24 hour milk-run down the west coast of South America, over the Andes and into Argentina. Late afternoon, drive to La Plata with the Kraiselburd family: Elias, Lea, Gustavo, Gaston. Abuela? Flatness of the land, nothing visible over a horizon. Arriving in La Plata in the evening, trying to make out what the place was like from back seat of their family car. Cobblestone paving, yellowish street lamps, far between. Pools of light at leafy intersections, then bumpy blocks of darkness. No sense of destination until we'd almost arrived. Calle 52, Numero 362? Me trato de acordar...

George Oppen

. .

Of the dawn
Over Frisco
Lighting the large hills
And the very small coves
At their feet, and we
Perched in the dawn wind
Of that coast like leaves
Of the most recent weed----And yet the things

That happen! Signs,
Promises----we took it
As sign, as promise

Still for nothing wavered,
Nothing begged or was unreal, the thing
Happening, filling our eyesight
Out to the horizon----I remember the sky
And the moving sea.

(from "Guest Room," This In Which, New Directions, 1965)