Hiroshima

Japanese Gardens

Access

Turrell

Living Panel

Stealing Tarkovsky

Images taken from Andrei Tarkovsky's, "Nostalghia".
Okay, i realize that foreign films are often the fodder for comedy show sketches and beer commercials. And I get why.
But all the things that people mock about foreign films are the very things I love about them. Slow,obtuse,melodramatic,existential,ruminative and beautifully shot. They often require a patience that flies in the face of our expedited daily existence. It is a small escape to another place. (Granted, WIll Ferrell movies also provide a certain escape and one I enjoy as well but that's another blog post altogether.)

Miette

My wife Sarah is a photographer and has been doing quite a few kids portraits lately. Here's two she took of our youngest daughter Helena. To see more of Sarah's work check out: Sarah Bork Hamilton and Borklife

Studio Time

Taking advantage of this cold, rainy day to do some small works on paper.

Save the Cactus Cafe

An open letter to University of Texas President William Powers and The Texas Union Board of Directors:

To the Powers that Be,
It is with much concern and respect that I write to you this morning, having learned of the potential fate of the Cactus Cafe. I cannot imagine the degree of responsibility,expectation and pressure that must come with your position. I am a songwriter and a carpenter. My days are relatively simple. Spent by turns with a guitar or hammer in hand. I cannot and do not claim to know or understand the managerial inner workings and fiscal machinations of such a massive institution like the University of Texas. It must be daunting to be faced,on a daily basis, with decisions that will affect the lives of thousands of people in a myriad of ways. I do, however, know the affect that has already been had on thousands of people at the very idea of shutting down the Cactus Cafe. At this very moment, in cafes and clubs and living rooms from Austin to Amsterdam, from Tokyo to Terlingua, there are conversations and laments of concern, sadness and anger at the possibility. I do not know your personal passions or interests and I am sure that you must temper them by degree so as not to allow them to weigh in on policy and decision making regarding the interests of the University. But I would ask that each and every one of you listen deeply and consider greatly, the concerns of those who are in disagreement with this proposal. For a great wave of resistance is headed your way. The idea that a legendary venue like the Cactus would be reduced to a "budget cut" is staggering. The Cactus Cafe is one of the most respected and revered venues world wide by both audiences and performers. The table of our city and it's very image is supported by four main legs of industry. Education,government,hi tech and live music. The city is repeatedly sold to tourists around the globe as the "Live Music Capital of the World." Many believe the Cactus Cafe to be the very heart of it. I have toured for many years across this country and others and can tell you that the Cactus is a very special and unique place. What lies before you as a name on a list to be drawn through and marked off due to cut backs, is nothing short of sacred. What takes place in the space within those four walls transcends "entertainment."
There are many voicing concern over the exorbitant salaries of the coaches at UT and the extreme imbalance of finances between departments in general. I certainly can't claim to know how much of that ,if any, actually comes to play in all of this, but you must recognize the inevitable comparisons that will be made. And while I do not belittle the value and merit of the sport of football and it's provision of joy,entertainment and cultural bonding for the masses, I would call into question it's bulldozing,(whether blatantly or covertly) over the interests and passions of others, be it music,science art or history.
I realize that in the scope of hardships and tragedies that humanity has and will endure, by comparison, the loss of a musical venue is a paltry concern. But what is potentially being lost and fought for here is so much more than a piece of real estate or usable space. Broken hearts and homes have been healed through music and the sharing of the human experience through the medium, through the ages. People on the brink of stepping away from this world have been brought back to it through the power of song. Melodramatic as that may sound, it is the truth. Thousands of people through many years have been moved, comforted and recognized by a story or sentiment, sung or spoken ,with wit or sorrow, from that stage. I have been witness to that at the Cactus Cafe, both as listener and as a performer. The Cactus has been home to the exchange that happens in a darkened room full of strangers who have come together in anticipation, with all of their hopes,hurts,dreams and doubts. A shared experience through melody, word, laughter and tear. A community of spirit. The worth of that is immeasurable. For that reason alone the Cactus should be left undisturbed to remain the spiritual meeting place that it is.
So I ask you all, out of respect for the storytelling tradition, the legacy of the Cactus Cafe and the stirring of hearts and minds through song, please reconsider the proposal before you and maintain the honesty and integrity of our city slogan, "The Live Music Capital of the World."

Yours,

Nathan Hamilton

My Darling Clementine

offer and receive

A Hidden Frame

i'm not convinced
not yet anyway
i'll admit
you do seem fearless
confidant
at ease
but there is something there
in the way you just shifted your weight
from one leg to the other
it was just a hint
a hidden frame
some slight sign of weariness
visible behind that smile and nod
that says you would really love to just lie down
it would be welcomed
i assure you
no mocking tone would ride the breath
of anyone here
warm tea and cool rags
would be delivered with all sincerity
your feet
washed with unguarded hands
i understand that these days
do not allow for the embracing of anything earnest
that the cynics tongue is the rule
and to stand before another with open arms
and not a trace of irony
is to play the fool
but i am willing to take that part on
are you

NH

Space to the Listener

Love this pic

The Blue Glow

From the couch
I can hear the cat drinking out of the toilet
The ceramic reverb of a tiny room
A mosquito feeds on my right hand
The fleshy part just below the thumb
I allow this

The buried ringing in my ears
From too many cymbals
And one ballsy Fender Deluxe
Is a tenacious lover spurned
Relentless and pleading
Try as I might to deny her
She always finds a way back in
Always

I check the blue glow for a third time
Knowing full well I should be creating
Something
But instead seeking
Something
Vanity is a false stroke
Flattery a cold mouth

I have the tools
To dismantle almost anything
I have the ability
And the care
To repair the deepest crack
I try
My best
To utilize my faith
To administer a salve of compassion


NH

Abilene

Today I found myself on the side of a barren, two-lane highway, stamping out a grassfire in the rain. The result of a tossed cigarette I'm sure, but odd that it would catch in such wet conditions. I felt almost guilty for extinguishing it. It must have struggled like hell to burn.

Nature Mobile

Rain day fun. Made mobiles with the girls.

Forty

(detail)
(detail)
(detail)

icord

Atwater: An Appreciation for Joe Henry

From Here


To Here

In 1990, i was working in an antique shop and living in the back. I say back but it was really just a storage closet that was four feet wide by eight feet long. It had a cot, a small table, and a wall of book shelves filled with hat boxes, doll parts, assorted ceramics, a variety of salt and pepper figurines, a pair of womens' black victorian lace up boots, stacks of 78's, brittle paged books and numerous Sharpie marked boxes, yellowed with age,that i never dared pry into. I had also managed to wedge in my old Kenwood turntable, amp and two speakers and what records i had brought with me on my exodus from my hometown of Abilene,Texas. I bathed in the bathrooms cold water sink and warmed cans of soup and beans on an upside down iron, a trick i had picked up from a passage in "On the Road". My main companion was a black Harmony acoustic i had picked up in a pawn shop for 80 bucks. It was all self inflicted hard scrabble and i was enjoying every bit of it.
I was manning the store for the owner, a working actor who was out of town for several months performing in a play. The store was located on Glendale Blvd. in a part of Los Angeles known as Atwater Village. At the time the only thing "hip" about the area was the highly modern, Italian restaurant two doors down, sandwiched between the tackle shop and the liquor store. Everything else around looked like it probably had for the last 40 years. Everyone on those two blocks of storefronts knew each other. Each morning at sunrise was a Mayberry moment. I would walk past the bird lady at the pet shop, the insurance salesman with the leaky window unit above his door, the cranky old sailor that ran the tackle shop(he truly looked like Popeye only with a little more weight on him) and other colorful neighbors, too many to mention. I would make my way down to the German Bakery for coffee, pastries and that first morning smoke, that, at 23 feels like the entire world opening itself up to you but at 40 feels like your stacking the final stone up onto the Great Wall. Afterwards, I would walk next door to the thrift shop and search for possible items to buy and resell in my store fifty yards away. Lastly, like savoring the last bite of a perfect meal, i would flip through the record bins.
It was on just such a morning that i came across an album that would stand me up, turn me around and send me on my musical journey. Unlike books, I have always judged records by their covers and while i know there have been many gems i have overlooked, more times than not my instincts have proven to be dead on. The title was intriguing enough, "Shuffletown", but it was the name that really grabbed me. The generic, everyman, John Doe quality of it...Joe Henry. I had grown up with my father singing songs to me filled with names like that. I was raised on Johnny, Kris, Hank, Tom T, Willie and more. I could tell a storyteller when I saw one without even hearing a single note. At the time, the writers I was listening to the most were from across the sea. David Sylvian, Lloyd Cole, Shane McGowan and such. I had found them in cut out bins and though I had not yet been schooled in the music business, i knew that something was amiss when artists and albums this good were landing in racks with 99 cent stickers on them. I immediately bought this new discovery, took it "home" and played it. Repeatedly.
I didn't get it the first few times but i let it play again and again while i busied myself with tasks around the store. It was about the 5th play thru that i remember actually sitting down in a "whoa" kind of moment. The roomy, live quality of the recording, the pace and the patience required and the way the lyrics drew me in and slowly revealed themselves, all took me back to a time and a place i had never been before but somehow felt i belonged. Nostalgia for something I had not even experienced. It was filled with everything i was drawn to and, in that store, surrounded by. Worn leather satchels , torn furniture, dusty shades and silver flasks. I was 23 in an old mans clothes and I had found my soundtrack. Many years later, my wife and I would dance to "Date for Church" at our wedding and further still name our second daughter after "Helena by the Avenue".
Back then, there was no internet to search or Google, to discover up to date facts about the artists you liked. The mystery was allowed to remain intact. I would have to wait for the occasional article in underground music rags to find out about new releases or, as many discoveries were made, follow the liner notes from album to album and artist to artist and the chain of associations that exist. I was surprised how few people seemed to know about this guy though, even people i met that worked in the music business would say, "How have I not heard this?" I wasn't obsessed with the man, hell, maybe I was, but every young songwriter has their Dylan. Mine just wasn't Dylan. In my own writing, I tried to avoid imitation, but influence was inevitable. I followed each release and every one was like a gift and an education. There was an urgency in them, a vitality and they were ever evolving in unstrained strides. You could tell they were being made first and foremost for himself and every other intention trailed behind that.
We all have those things we discover under the radar that feel exclusively our own. A film, a novel, an artist or an album that we feel protective of. We want to share it with the world but we also want to keep it under out hat. But I like to think that I've done my little bit to spread Joe's music around to friends and strangers over the last 20 years. (Not that he needs my help.)
I can't say that "Shuffletown" is still my favorite of the albums. There have been too many great ones to pick just one. "Scar", "Civilians" , "Short Man's Room" and more. But now as I sit here, many miles and years later, listening to the new album, "Blood From Stars", i can't help but smell the coffee in the German bakery, hear the parrot on the bird ladies shoulder and see the water slowly dripping from the insurance mans window unit. Appreciative of the long journey now behind and the one that lies ahead.

NH

Filigree

is that an angel or a tree
this silhouette of desire
that hangs above me
reaching across waters
transcending time
to stir up the embers
of a fire i let die

nh

Advances in Technology

Walls and Curb