Osama Esid has a new series in the works; August Sander
meeting something altogether else.
Worth checking here: flickr.com/osamaesid
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Osama Esid- "Mason's Alley"
Osama Esid has a new series in the works; August Sander
meeting something altogether else.
Worth checking here: flickr.com/osamaesid
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Friday, June 17, 2011
Monday, April 11, 2011
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
February 25th, 7 pm; Reception with "Dreamland Faces."
Dreamland Faces will be performing Feb. 25, 7pm at Vine Arts Center in conjunction with "You are not a dinosaur." http://www.dreamlandfaces.com/upcomingperformances.htm
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
February 19th, 7pm; "Grave of the Fireflies."
Isao Takahata's masterpiece Grave of the Fireflies will be screened Feb. 19 in conjunction with "You are not a dinosaur."
Monday, February 14, 2011
Thank You
Thanks to everyone who made our opening a great success, and a very fun evening. More "dinosaur" events to come; Feb. 19th at 7 we're screening "Grave of the Fireflies." Feb. 25th at 7 "Dreamland Faces" are playing, and Osama Esid will give a workshop on alternative photo processes Mar. 5th from 2-6. http://www.vineartscenter.com/events/index.htm
Friday, February 11, 2011
Vine Arts Center
You are here, or should be. "You are not a dinosaur" opens Saturday, February 12 from 6-10 pm. More detailed directions here: http://www.vineartscenter.com/contact/index.htm
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Bruce Holland Rogers, "Dinosaur"
"Dinosaur"
When he was very young, he waved his arms, gnashed the teeth of his massive jaws, and tromped around the house so that the dishes trembled in the china cabinet. “Oh, for goodness sake,” his mother said. “You are not a dinosaur! You are a human being!” Since he was not a dinosaur, he thought for a time that he might be a pirate. “Seriously,” his father said at some point, “what do you want to be?” A fireman, then. Or a policeman. Or a soldier. Some kind of hero. But in high school they gave him tests and told him he was very good with numbers. Perhaps he would like to be a math teacher? That was respectable. Or a tax accountant? He could make a lot of money doing that. It seemed a good idea to make money, what with falling in love and thinking about raising a family. So he was a tax accountant, even though he sometimes regretted that it made him, well, small. And he felt even smaller when he was no longer a tax accountant, but a retired tax accountant. Still worse, a retired tax accountant who forgot things. He forgot to take the garbage to the curb, forgot to take his pill, forgot to turn his hearing aid back on. Every day it seemed he had forgotten more things, important things, like which of his children lived in San Francisco and which of his children were married or divorced.
Then one day when he was out for a walk by the lake, he forgot what his mother had told him. He forgot that he was not a dinosaur. He stood blinking his dinosaur eyes in the bright sunlight, feeling the familiar warmth on his dinosaur skin, watching dragonflies flitting among the horsetails at the water’s edge.
Bruce Holland Rogers
When he was very young, he waved his arms, gnashed the teeth of his massive jaws, and tromped around the house so that the dishes trembled in the china cabinet. “Oh, for goodness sake,” his mother said. “You are not a dinosaur! You are a human being!” Since he was not a dinosaur, he thought for a time that he might be a pirate. “Seriously,” his father said at some point, “what do you want to be?” A fireman, then. Or a policeman. Or a soldier. Some kind of hero. But in high school they gave him tests and told him he was very good with numbers. Perhaps he would like to be a math teacher? That was respectable. Or a tax accountant? He could make a lot of money doing that. It seemed a good idea to make money, what with falling in love and thinking about raising a family. So he was a tax accountant, even though he sometimes regretted that it made him, well, small. And he felt even smaller when he was no longer a tax accountant, but a retired tax accountant. Still worse, a retired tax accountant who forgot things. He forgot to take the garbage to the curb, forgot to take his pill, forgot to turn his hearing aid back on. Every day it seemed he had forgotten more things, important things, like which of his children lived in San Francisco and which of his children were married or divorced.
Then one day when he was out for a walk by the lake, he forgot what his mother had told him. He forgot that he was not a dinosaur. He stood blinking his dinosaur eyes in the bright sunlight, feeling the familiar warmth on his dinosaur skin, watching dragonflies flitting among the horsetails at the water’s edge.
Bruce Holland Rogers
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Tim White was recently interviewed by Tim Olsen of A Photo Assistant. See what Rilke, senility, and Donald Trump have to do with "You are not a dinosaur." here: http://aphotoassistant.com/2011/01/22/you-are-not-a-dinosaur/
Thursday, January 13, 2011
"You are not a dinosaur's" flickr group now open to everyone
There have been some remarkable images entering the recently opened 'dinosaur' flickr group. See for yourself: http://www.flickr.com/groups/notadinosaur/
Saturday, January 1, 2011
At last we have the poster for our show...
The image is adapted from a circa 1907 illustration by Berthold Loeffler. I think it represents well another facet of Bruce Holland Rogers' story- that of the vivid imagination that we lose in time, or have taken from us. I also wanted to reference the Viennese Secessionists, whose efforts a century earlier seem consonant with our own- to challenge a depleted aesthetic with honesty and subjectivity.
The image is adapted from a circa 1907 illustration by Berthold Loeffler. I think it represents well another facet of Bruce Holland Rogers' story- that of the vivid imagination that we lose in time, or have taken from us. I also wanted to reference the Viennese Secessionists, whose efforts a century earlier seem consonant with our own- to challenge a depleted aesthetic with honesty and subjectivity.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
February 25th, 7 pm; "Dreamland Faces."
Dreamland Faces will be performing Feb. 25 at Vine Arts Center in conjunction with "You are not a dinosaur." http://www.dreamlandfaces.com/upcomingperformances.htm
Saturday, December 18, 2010
"Dinosaur"
When he was very young, he waved his arms, gnashed the teeth of his massive jaws, and tromped around the house so that the dishes trembled in the china cabinet. “Oh, for goodness sake,” his mother said. “You are not a dinosaur! You are a human being!” Since he was not a dinosaur, he thought for a time that he might be a pirate. “Seriously,” his father said at some point, “what do you want to be?” A fireman, then. Or a policeman. Or a soldier. Some kind of hero. But in high school they gave him tests and told him he was very good with numbers. Perhaps he would like to be a math teacher? That was respectable. Or a tax accountant? He could make a lot of money doing that. It seemed a good idea to make money, what with falling in love and thinking about raising a family. So he was a tax accountant, even though he sometimes regretted that it made him, well, small. And he felt even smaller when he was no longer a tax accountant, but a retired tax accountant. Still worse, a retired tax accountant who forgot things. He forgot to take the garbage to the curb, forgot to take his pill, forgot to turn his hearing aid back on. Every day it seemed he had forgotten more things, important things, like which of his children lived in San Francisco and which of his children were married or divorced.
Then one day when he was out for a walk by the lake, he forgot what his mother had told him. He forgot that he was not a dinosaur. He stood blinking his dinosaur eyes in the bright sunlight, feeling the familiar warmth on his dinosaur skin, watching dragonflies flitting among the horsetails at the water’s edge.
Bruce Holland Rogers
When he was very young, he waved his arms, gnashed the teeth of his massive jaws, and tromped around the house so that the dishes trembled in the china cabinet. “Oh, for goodness sake,” his mother said. “You are not a dinosaur! You are a human being!” Since he was not a dinosaur, he thought for a time that he might be a pirate. “Seriously,” his father said at some point, “what do you want to be?” A fireman, then. Or a policeman. Or a soldier. Some kind of hero. But in high school they gave him tests and told him he was very good with numbers. Perhaps he would like to be a math teacher? That was respectable. Or a tax accountant? He could make a lot of money doing that. It seemed a good idea to make money, what with falling in love and thinking about raising a family. So he was a tax accountant, even though he sometimes regretted that it made him, well, small. And he felt even smaller when he was no longer a tax accountant, but a retired tax accountant. Still worse, a retired tax accountant who forgot things. He forgot to take the garbage to the curb, forgot to take his pill, forgot to turn his hearing aid back on. Every day it seemed he had forgotten more things, important things, like which of his children lived in San Francisco and which of his children were married or divorced.
Then one day when he was out for a walk by the lake, he forgot what his mother had told him. He forgot that he was not a dinosaur. He stood blinking his dinosaur eyes in the bright sunlight, feeling the familiar warmth on his dinosaur skin, watching dragonflies flitting among the horsetails at the water’s edge.
Bruce Holland Rogers
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