uwmspeccoll:

Wood Engraving Wednesday

WESLEY BATES

The noted Canadian illustrator and wood engraver Wesley Bates (b. 1952) produced the engravings for an edition of poems by the somewhat obscure 3rd- or 4th-century CE Greek epigrammatist Rufinus, translated by the Canadian writer and scholar Robin Skelton and printed in British Columbia at the Barbarian Press in an edition of 200 copies in 1997. Little is known about Rufinus himself, but Skelton informs us that the works of Rufinus combine sensuality with wit and show an appreciation for female beauty. Many of the poems are explicit in nature, and often have misogynistic undertones. Each poem is translated into rhymed metrical verse, demonstrating Skelton’s appreciation for past traditions of translating Latin and Greek in the 18th and 19th centuries.

Wesley Bates was born in the Yukon in 1952 and raised in South Western Saskatchewan. After studying painting and printmaking at Mount Allison University in Sackville, New Brunswick from 1972-1977, he pursued a career as a painter and printmaker in Sackville, and turned to illustration and wood engraving 1981. He has since been a much sought-after illustrator by numerous publications and publishers.

The engravings were printed directly from the blocks on Zerkall White Wove and Zerkall Cream Laid papers, with the book designed, bound, and the text handset in Jan Van Krimpen’s Van Dijk type, with his Cancelleresca Bastarda and Open Kapilalen for display, by Barbarian Press proprietor Crispin Elsted. Elsted’s wife and Barbarian Press co-founder Jan Elsted printed the book. Our copy is signed by Robin Skelton and the Elsteds and is another gift from our friend Jerry Buff.

View more posts with wood engravings!

mydarkenedeyes:

Spencer Finch366, Emily Dickinson’s Miraculous Year (2009)

This work is based on Emily Dickinson in 1862, when she wrote 366 poems in 365 days. It is a real-time memorial to that year, which burns for exactly one year. The sculpture is comprised of 366 individual candles arranged in a linear sequence, each of which burns for 24 hours. The colour of each candle matches a colour mentioned in the corresponding poem. For the poems in which no colour is mentioned, the candles are made out of natural paraffin.

the black bones

Step with me over the black oil and keep your sandals

on. Walk with me to those tables, sit with me on the

stickered bench, quiet like the streets at noon on the

hottest day of the year. Watch the needles on the ground

and don’t mind that old burned spoon. Give me your hand

and accompany me to this crab grass plain in the desert

air, where we’re going to find something better by the hour

even if it’s the sweat on my brow and the flaked skin on your

shoulder. Love with me in the heat of the middle of this basin

of fire and sin, sin with your arm over my eyes. Laugh

with me in heaved sighs. Come with me to the inside, to the

old place full of blackened death and low low light. Give me

your hand, give me your hand. I don’t know everything but

I know a lot, you know a lot, together we know more than

is good for us. Inside it’s colder and on the far wall it’s just

a lot of fucking old bones. I know more about the fucking old

bones than I’ll tell you. My poetry is bullshit from the heart

where everything should really be from. Read the placard

about those old bones to me. I think a wall of our home

would look nice with lots of skulls on it. Steal these bones

with me, they find them in the ground and ownership is

what we make of it, the alive and the dead. You may own

my bones when I am dead. May I own yours?

the black bones

Step with me over the black oil and keep your sandals

on. Walk with me to those tables, sit with me on the

stickered bench, quiet like the streets at noon on the

hottest day of the year. Watch the needles on the ground

and don’t mind that old burned spoon. Give me your hand

and accompany me to this crab grass plain in the desert

air, where we’re going to find something better by the hour

even if it’s the sweat on my brow and the flaked skin on your

shoulder. Love with me in the heat of the middle of this basin

of fire and sin, sin with your arm over my eyes. Laugh

with me in heaved sighs. Come with me to the inside, to the

old place full of blackened death and low low light. Give me

your hand, give me your hand. I don’t know everything but

I know a lot, you know a lot, together we know more than

is good for us. Inside it’s colder and on the far wall it’s just

a lot of fucking old bones. I know more about the fucking old

bones than I’ll tell you. My poetry is bullshit from the heart

where everything should really be from. Read the placard

about those old bones to me. I think a wall of our home

would look nice with lots of skulls on it. Steal these bones

with me, they find them in the ground and ownership is

what we make of it, the alive and the dead. You may own

my bones when I am dead. May I own yours?

Dinner.

It’s alright to be shy
About my hand on your thigh.
You will let go in the car.