Heidi Wynne

Check out this amazing new brand of bags, scarves, and other girl stuff from a talented and amazing woman.

http://heidiwynne.com/

Walking Wounded: Little Sculpture

I was messing around with some perforated steel and this came out.
Hope you like it.

Jimmy Diresta: Hatchet

WALKING WOUNDED Furniture & Sundry Superball Ottoman

Superball Ottoman. Visit my ETSY Shop at:
http://www.etsy.com/shop/WalkingWoundedNYC

Walking Wounded In Process: Wall Mounted Desk

I'm working on a wall mounted desk. Hope you like it.

Walking Wounded: Frames

I made a couple of frames for my friend. One is made from a solid piece of poplar. The other to look like a sheet of notebook paper.

Hope you like 'em

Walking Wounded: Superball Ottoman In Process

Will Cotton: Peter and The Wolf

Isaac Mizrahi will narrate Sergei Prokofiev’s charming children’s classic, as George Manahan conducts the Juilliard Ensemble. Artist Will Cotton will bring the production to life with a newly commissioned installation, in which the familiar characters are set within a gingerbread chalet. The audience is invited to view the artwork on stage following the program. The story brings 30 minutes of suspense, including a happy ending, and allows the young and young at heart to learn and remember the various instruments in the orchestra.

From: www.guggenheim.org

Walking Wounded: Superball Ottoman; In Process

I made an ottoman out of Mahogany. I cut the legs and aprons using the band saw and shaped them by hand with a spokeshave.

The cushion is made from 1000 1" children's superballs- the type you get out of a vending machine. I used silicone to glue them in place. One. At. A. Time.

There's a plexi box with a light fixture in it, under the lights- so when you turn it on- it glows.

I hope you like it.

RADIOHEAD & ACL

Watch Radiohead on PBS. See more from Austin City Limits.>

Watch Radiohead on PBS. See more from Austin City Limits.

Final Soliloquy of the Interior Paramour

Light the first light of evening, as in a room

In which we rest and, for small reason, think
The world imagined is the ultimate good.

This is, therefore, the intensest rendezvous.
It is in that thought that we collect ourselves,
Out of all the indifferences, into one thing:

Within a single thing, a single shawl
Wrapped tightly round us, since we are poor, a warmth,
A light, a power, the miraculous influence.

Here, now, we forget each other and ourselves.
We feel the obscurity of an order, a whole,
A knowledge, that which arranged the rendezvous.

Within its vital boundary, in the mind.
We say God and the imagination are one...
How high that highest candle lights the dark.

Out of this same light, out of the central mind,
We make a dwelling in the evening air,
In which being there together is enough.

Wallace Stevens

Jimmy Diresta Plasma Cutter

My Buddy Jimmy is at it again, this time with a Plasma Cutter....Thanks man.

Walking Wounded: Neutral Colors

I'm getting interested in strong, basic pieces that have modular components to them. The dresser came about from an idea to make ribs show through the side- super basic and clean. I then made a removable top out of wood and metal and painted a "racing stripe" down the sides and also on the drawer. I called it the neutral colors dresser after people's wardrobes and the colors of Switzerland. For some reason I think about St. Bernards and the little casks they have under their necks in cartoons.

Photography by Parker Argote

Walking Wounded: Praire Wiffle Bench

I'd been thinking alot about women's dresses from the 1880s and also about kids playing baseball in wheat fields. I wanted to make something that would capture the woman's dress and the feeling that kids get when they hid under the mom's legs while also putting childhood in a box to be looked at like in a museum- so I made a bench. The bench is made from furniture grade ply wood, I then put the back into the seat with mortise and tenon joints (you can remove the back if you want) and then put steel rods through the legs and metal "shoes" on the bottom. I then wallpapered the bench in a flowered wallpaper that reminded me of little house on the praire and running under my mom's legs. Then, I made an arm rest out of plexiglass and filled it with wiffle balls. I hope you like it.

Photography by Parker Argote

WALKING WOUNDED NYC on ETSY

WALKING WOUNDED is now on ETSY!
In the coming months you will find new and different pieces available for purchase.

Go check out the shop and let me know what you think!

http://www.etsy.com/shop/WalkingWoundedNYC

Wordsworth

Ode on Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood
by William Wordsworth
There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight To me did seem Apparelled in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream. It is not now as it hath been of yore;-- Turn wheresoe'er I may, By night or day, The things which I have seen I now can see no more. The rainbow comes and goes, And lovely is the rose; The moon doth with delight Look round her when the heavens are bare; Waters on a starry night Are beautiful and fair; The sunshine is a glorious birth; But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath past away a glory from the earth. Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, And while the young lambs bound As to the tabor's sound, To me alone there came a thought of grief: A timely utterance gave that thought relief, And I again am strong. The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep,-- No more shall grief of mine the season wrong: I hear the echoes through the mountains throng. The winds come to me from the fields of sleep, And all the earth is gay; Land and sea Give themselves up to jollity, And with the heart of May Doth every beast keep holiday;-- Thou child of joy, Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy! Ye blesséd Creatures, I have heard the call Ye to each other make; I see The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; My heart is at your festival, My head hath its coronal, The fulness of your bliss, I feel--I feel it all. O evil day! if I were sullen While Earth herself is adorning This sweet May-morning; And the children are culling On every side In a thousand valleys far and wide Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm, And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm:-- I hear, I hear, with joy I hear! --But there's a tree, of many, one, A single field which I have look'd upon, Both of them speak of something that is gone: The pansy at my feet Doth the same tale repeat: Whither is fled the visionary gleam? Where is it now, the glory and the dream? Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting; The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting And cometh from afar; Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close Upon the growing Boy, But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, He sees it in his joy; The Youth, who daily farther from the east Must travel, still is Nature's priest, And by the vision splendid Is on his way attended; At length the Man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day. Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, And, even with something of a mother's mind, And no unworthy aim, The homely nurse doth all she can To make her foster-child, her inmate, Man, Forget the glories he hath known, And that imperial palace whence he came. Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, A six years' darling of a pigmy size! See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, With light upon him from his father's eyes! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, Some fragment from his dream of human life, Shaped by himself with newly-learned art; A wedding or a festival, A mourning or a funeral; And this hath now his heart, And unto this he frames his song: Then will he fit his tongue To dialogues of business, love, or strife; But it will not be long Ere this be thrown aside, And with new joy and pride The little actor cons another part; Filling from time to time his 'humorous stage' With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, That life brings with her in her equipage; As if his whole vocation Were endless imitation. Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thy soul's immensity; Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind, That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, Haunted for ever by the eternal Mind,-- Mighty Prophet! Seer blest! On whom those truths rest Which we are toiling all our lives to find, In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave; Thou, over whom thy Immortality Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave, A Presence which is not to be put by; To whom the grave Is but a lonely bed, without the sense of sight Of day or the warm light, A place of thoughts where we in waiting lie; Thou little child, yet glorious in the might Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke, Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight, And custom lie upon thee with a weight Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life! 0 joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, That Nature yet remembers What was so fugitive! The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction: not indeed For that which is most worthy to be blest, Delight and liberty, the simple creed Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast:-- --Not for these I raise The song of thanks and praise; But for those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings, Blank misgivings of a creature Moving about in worlds not realized, High instincts, before which our mortal nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised: But for those first affections, Those shadowy recollections, Which, be they what they may, Are yet the fountain-light of all our day, Are yet a master-light of all our seeing; Uphold us--cherish--and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake, To perish never; Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, Nor man nor boy, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy! Hence, in a season of calm weather Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither; Can in a moment travel thither-- And see the children sport upon the shore, And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. Then, sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song! And let the young lambs bound As to the tabor's sound! We, in thought, will join your throng, Ye that pipe and ye that play, Ye that through your hearts to-day Feel the gladness of the May! What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now for ever taken from my sight, Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind; In the primal sympathy Which having been must ever be; In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of human suffering; In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind. And 0, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, Forebode not any severing of our loves! Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; I only have relinquish'd one delight To live beneath your more habitual sway; I love the brooks which down their channels fret Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they; The innocent brightness of a new-born day Is lovely yet; The clouds that gather round the setting sun Do take a sober colouring from an eye That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; Another race hath been, and other palms are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live, Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. From: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15926 UNBELIEVABLE

Ai Weiwei

"Art is always about overcoming obstacles between the inner condition and the skill for expression.”

-Ai Weiwei

from: http://www.wmagazine.com/artdesign/2011/11/ai-weiwei-chinese-artist-collaborates-with-w

Upstate

I got a chance to get upstate toward the end of the summer. Sometimes doing nothing is doing something.

Remember that.

Walking Wounded: Beer Tap

A friend asked me to make him a beer tap handle for a wedding gift.
Solid Mahogany, Lathe, carved by hand.

I hope you like it.

H Spencer Young

check this guy's stuff out. www.hspenceryoung.com

Walking Wounded: Wiffle Bench on the Prairie

I've been thinking a lot about women's dresses from the late 1880s and the image of kids playing baseball on the edges of wheat fields. Attached are some in process photos of a bench I am wallpapering...