TOTI O'BRIEN
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"Locked" - Issue 01
"Evil and Good, 1" - Issue 02
Discuss your encounter with Surrealism.
I discovered Surrealism through painting, by chance and at an early age. De Chirico, Max Ernst, Chagall, Frida Kahlo, Leonora Carrington, Paul Delvaux, and who knows how many more. Large books in popular edition, delivered with the papers, stuck in shelves low enough for me to grab them and take off. Those landscapes or interiors where things didn't respond to gravity—had a life of their own, both haunting and exhilarating—were the happiest place for me to live in. I absolutely craved them. They closely resembled dreams—by and large my favorite reality. Surreal imagery seemed a natural habitat to me, most immediate, familiar, comfortable. Surreal poetry and prose came along later. Many surreal artists, like Leonora Carrington, also wrote.
I don't always write in a surrealistic vein. Sometimes my work tries to be orderly, concrete, and stern. I am not sure what sparks the surrealistic mode. Maybe it is a reward I give myself, after the hard task of dissecting a feeling or fact. Then I say goodbye to logic, and take off on a tightrope—to a world less subject to gravity, both denser and lighter.
Reality is “consistently surreal” to me. Meaning I see things and events always tumble, collapse, go upside down, connect and disconnect in fantastic ways. I see things and events make jokes, create poetry, weave patterns, disrespect the dictates of logic. Yes, we need to use logic, to avoid for those who are easily scared to perceive this fantastic dance happening in the wings. But the dance goes on.
I don't always write in a surrealistic vein. Sometimes my work tries to be orderly, concrete, and stern. I am not sure what sparks the surrealistic mode. Maybe it is a reward I give myself, after the hard task of dissecting a feeling or fact. Then I say goodbye to logic, and take off on a tightrope—to a world less subject to gravity, both denser and lighter.
Reality is “consistently surreal” to me. Meaning I see things and events always tumble, collapse, go upside down, connect and disconnect in fantastic ways. I see things and events make jokes, create poetry, weave patterns, disrespect the dictates of logic. Yes, we need to use logic, to avoid for those who are easily scared to perceive this fantastic dance happening in the wings. But the dance goes on.
Discuss your poem that we published (if we published more than one then you should only discuss one—your choice).
"Evil and Good, 1" is the first of three poems about . . . evil and good. Who are they? Twin brothers, perhaps . . . They are on a seesaw. They appear and disappear. Did you see him? Do you still? Was it him? His brother? A sense of disquiet creeps in: things double have such power. They kick you out of balance in a smooth, sneaky way.
Now look at those eggs, pink and blue. How pretty. You must choose. Please make up your mind. Pick a color. You can't. You want both. Things are what they are, and something else. A bed is for rest, and for death. Shall you go to sleep? Will you die?
Things are incomplete: crossroads with no sign, bell chimes you can't count. The missing details, the incongruities, are portals you want to slip through, or steer clear of . . . You just cannot choose.
Now look at those eggs, pink and blue. How pretty. You must choose. Please make up your mind. Pick a color. You can't. You want both. Things are what they are, and something else. A bed is for rest, and for death. Shall you go to sleep? Will you die?
Things are incomplete: crossroads with no sign, bell chimes you can't count. The missing details, the incongruities, are portals you want to slip through, or steer clear of . . . You just cannot choose.
Describe a time when you became aware of a found object—when you discovered a new, marvelous, unexpected use for or way of looking at a normal object.
My first found object might have been my piano. I started training very young and deeply disliked the discipline. While I memorized scores my eyes scanned the veins of the wood behind the pages (a vertical piano—and the wood was pale, golden, irregular in texture). I identified a zillion figures and scenes in the wood grain, getting to know them better and better. Interacting with them, or reshaping the marks in different combinations, to discover different figures, grew into a steady pastime enlivening my playing. Thus the piano became a kind of movie theater.
I said discover. The point being I knew those were veins in the woods, but I also believed someone had traced figures and scenes, because I saw them. Both things were true for me, though incompatible. Thus the piano was real, and surreal, and I could no more find the dividing line.
I said discover. The point being I knew those were veins in the woods, but I also believed someone had traced figures and scenes, because I saw them. Both things were true for me, though incompatible. Thus the piano was real, and surreal, and I could no more find the dividing line.
TOTI O'BRIEN'S SURREAL PROVERB
Don’t let sour milky ways spoil the willow tree’s blues.
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