Jim Andrews
Since the beginning
Works in Victoria Canada

ARTBASE (2)
BIO
Jim Andrews does http://vispo.com . He is a poet-programmer and audio guy. His work explores the new media possibilities of poetry, and seeks to synthesize the poetical with other arts and media.
Discussions (847) Opportunities (2) Events (14) Jobs (0)
DISCUSSION

DISCUSSION

Re: ound pome


the director algorithm just draws a frame of the swf and then will draw the
next frame of the swf, when it's time, at a slightly different (somewhat
random) position. the 'sex' is in the texture and shape that comes out of
the cumulative drawing with these vowels, which isn't in the algorithm but
is a happy accident.

the swf is one from nio that i made a few years ago. looks different from
how it looks in nio, though. it was used as an animation there, but here as
'paint'.

when i first started learning flash, i made some animations related to the
nio one. the animations weren't very interesting but when i onion-skinned, i
saw things like http://vispo.com/A/atob.html in the flash authoring
environment (which i took a screenshot of). that still shot is better than
the flash animation it's drawn from, just as the oundpoem is better than the
animation it is drawn from. piece, paragraph, word, letter, pixel.

ja
a very sexy formula
k

komninos zervos

ound pome:
http://vispo.com/animisms/oundPoem.htm

DISCUSSION

ound pome


ound pome:
http://vispo.com/animisms/oundPoem.htm

in lieu of having a cigarette (quit (again) a couple of weeks ago)

requires shockwave. a bit of 'imaging lingo' with an imported flash swf.

ja

DISCUSSION

Re: jellynet (new work)


i enjoyed that also. had just finished watching american psycho and reading
some lisa jarnot before jellynet. so, pardon me, but allow me to quote some
lisa jarnot. somehow the sheep reminded me.

Story

They loved these things. They loved the trees
the sheep the windows of the sun. They loved the sun
and called the sun the sun. They called the sun the birds
and then the sheep and then it rained and then they ate.
They ate the sheep, the birds, the sun, and then the rain.
The rain came and they loved it and they loved the little

trees. They loved the trees and also ships and little
windows of the sun. They loved the thing called sun, the trees,
the birds, the sheep, the windows of the ship and also rain.
They asked about the sheep and also birds and then the sun.
They told the stories of the birds they knew and then they ate.
They ate the birds in stories that had sheep and ships and birds.
.
.
.
from Black Dog Songs (Flood Editions)

ja

> Clicking on the sheep was particularly satisfying.
> I loved the sun also. The whole thing is very elegant!
> best
> michael
>
> > found myself with some time to add a new one to the
> > 'without permission' series
> > http://www.rssgallery.com/jellynet.htm
> >
> > cheers,
> > jess.
> >
> > animation by 'rubarb & custard' (brit joke) o
> > /^ rssgallery.com
> > ][

DISCUSSION

Re: Re: Re: republican art


thanks, i enjoyed that very much, curt. i've seen another movie by doron,
and it has something in common with this one. it's, again, of one man, an
israeli man in this case, doing something like a performance only it is
intimate and manages to convey something of substance about who he is and
what he loves.

i checked out http://davidrovics.com and thence to
http://www.soundclick.com/pro/?BandID1310 where there is a 'pro'
recording of the same song ("after the revolution"). i liked doron's
recording better. david rovics is all there in doron's recording, whereas he
and his song get a bit drowned out by the proness of the instrumentation in
the pro version. doron seems to be on to something.

concerning the question i asked and david rovic's song, somehow i am
reminded of a poem by leonard cohen from his book 'flowers for hitler'
(1964) called "kerensky". this poem is also concerned with the revolution. i
think they are both beautiful.

Kerensky

My friend walks through our city this winter night,
fur-hatted, whistling,
stricken with seeing Eternity in all that is seasonal.
He is the Kerensky of our Circle
always about to chair the last official meeting
before the pros take over, they of the pure smiling eyes
trained only for Form.
He knows there are no measures to guarantee
the Revolution, or to preserve the row of muscular icicles
which will chart Winter's decline like a graph.
There is nothing for him to do but preside
over the last official meeting.
It will all come round again: the heartsick teachers
who make too much of poetry, their students
who refuse to suffer, the cache of rifles in the lawyer's attic:
and then the magic, the 80-year comet touching
the sturdiest houses. The Elite Corps commits suicide
in the tennis-ball basement. Poets ride buses free.
The General insists on a popularity poll. Troops study satire.
A strange public generosity prevails.
Only too well he knows the tiny moment when
everything is possible, when pride is loved, beauty held
in common, like having an exquisite sister,
and a man gives away his death like a piece of advice.
Our Kerensky has waited for these moments
over a table in a rented room
when poems grew like butterflies on the garbage of his life.
How many times? The sad answer is: they can be counted.
Possible and brief: this is his vision of Revolution.
Who will parade the shell today? Who will kill in the name
of the husk? Who will write a Law to raise the corpse
which cries now only for weeds and excrement?
See him walk the streets, the last guard, the only idler
on the square. He must keep the wreck of the Revolution
the debris of public beauty
from the pure smiling eyes of the trained visionaries
who need our daily lives perfect.
The soft snow begins to honour him with epaulets, and to
provoke the animal past of his fur hat. He wears a death,
but he allows the snow, like an ultimate answer, to forgive
him, just for this jewelled moment of his coronation. The
carved gargoyles of the City Hall recieve the snow as bibs
beneath their drooling lips. How they resemble the men of
profane vision, the same greed, the same intensity as they
who whip their minds to recall an ancient lucky orgasm, yes,
yes, he knows that deadly concentration, they are the founders,
they are the bankers--of History! He rests in his walk as they
consume of the generous night everything that he does not need.

Leonard Cohen