Untitled - Ingrid Kallick

based on The Long and the Short of Long-Term Memory by Cecil Castelucci

This is a preview of a piece of art that will be auctioned off for the Interstitial Arts Foundation. To learn more about the auction, please visit: iafauctions.com

Tags: thelongandtheshortoflongtermmemory, cecilcastelucci, interfictions2auction, interstitialartsfoundation, interfictions
Uploaded: October 18, 2009
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The Interfictions 2 Auction

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    IAFAuctions.com is part of the fundraising arm of the Interstitial Arts Foundation, a not–for–profit organization dedicated to the study, support, and promotion of interstitial art.

    IAF Photostream
    Bee with Cleaver All Valentines are One Valentine The Child Empress of Mars Everybody Knows Everybody Knows Boxcar Diner by Sarah Evans Remembrances Remembrances Heidi and Party on the Moon
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    A Taste of Interfictions 2
    • “My father's oldest brother was at the age when little boys fall in love with war. In the family's rush to get downstairs, no one noticed that he had brought his favorite hat into the basement, the one that superficially resembled the square czapka with the scarlet band of the Zandarmeria, the Polish Military Police. When the gun shots, the screams, and the smoke had cleared, the Germans discovered that their fugitive Polish soldier was just a ten year old boy.”
      From: Count Poniatowski and the Beautiful Chicken by Elizabeth Ziemska
    • “Information is sacred. I don't remember why, or who told me. But I know that information is sacred, so I write it down, scraps of knowledge and observations. I used to write in leather-bound journals with elegant heavy pens, but my fetish for elegance has fallen by the wayside in my rush to commit everything to paper. Now I use cheap marbled composition books, purchased by the dozen. The pen is still important, though. It must write in smooth lines of black, not catch on the page. There is too much to capture.”
      From: Valentines by Shira Lipkin
    • “My brother Pedro was born on the floor of our apartment. That was when we lived above the Good Foot. It was three-thirty on a Saturday morning when my mother pushed him out. Downstairs in the club, my father used to say, there was a band playing with twenty drummers, two basses, two guitars. Big horn section, lots of singers. It was some party down there. My mother said that my brother didn't cry once. He just hit the floor, put his ear against it, and started taking it all in right then. The band, the cheers from the crowd, the stomping feet against the club's floor. He never cried. But never slept either. Just listened and listened.”
      From: Interviews After the Revolution by Brian Francis Slattery
    • “I have never noticed until now the tender cut of your jaw, how the skin scoops inwards towards the throat, a reservoir for rain, or honey, or milk. I have never noticed the way your neck quivers next to the jugular. I have never noticed the way your sleep-sigh takes on a musical pattern, moving along in harmonic thirds, as though somewhere, in some dream, people are singing in chords.”
      From: Four Very True Tales by Kelly Barnhill

    Click here for another excerpt

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