Experimenting with different paper sizes and angles, he occasionally shows their spines, and the shadows they cast.
It is a celebration of books as treasured objects. His drawings — in particular his studies for his large-scale oil paintings with their notes scribbled down the margins — are some of his most intimate works to date. Interested in canonical authors like Edgar Allan Poe and Ernest Hemingway and drawing influence from Ed Ruscha, Mark Rothko, Anselm Kiefer, and Robert Rauschenberg, Miller pointedly combines text and images to comment on the frequent disconnect between representation and reality. For me, they are about nostalgia for a by-gone era — that musty smell, those coffee-mug rings, the often heart-breaking inscriptions on the inside cover.
Harland Miller was born in Yorkshire in and lives in London. Artwork Information. And it must have been early in the morning because the sun was low in the sky but it could have been sunset and I looked out over these, well, I think they were mountains.
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We could have been deep in a valley or high on a ridge top. And spread out before us — or perhaps rising above us — was all this My friends gave me a minute.
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Or perhaps they told me to take a minute. In any case, my eyes stung, as if I was about to cry.
The mountain or the deep valley or whatever it was shimmered in my vision and it might even have been that I could feel tears, real tears, on my face. But maybe not.
In any case, I stood stock still and looked at this strange earth — whatever it was, wherever it was — and I said to myself: I will never forget this place. Then I fell asleep and by the time we got to Los Angeles, it had vanished. I could not conjure it up again, not as I had seen it and felt it at the time.
A few years later, in , I was living in San Francisco in what can only be described as a hippy crash pad. I was planning my first trip to Mexico and reading books on the culture and geography and food and music of that country. If you envision a mattress on the floor and a bunch of library books piled on all sides, you pretty much have the picture.
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My crash-pad friends chided me in clouds of marijuana smoke. There are events I recall clearly but, unfortunately, they mostly involved problems with traveling companions and had little to do with Mexico itself. You may get to talk to local people a lot — but those people are police, and they are the ones asking the questions. Some memorable events had to do with simple ignorance on my part. Back then, never having been a camper or backpacker, I had an inflated idea of the capabilities of an Army surplus sleeping bag.
These were tales my crash-pad friends found vaguely amusing, but I felt that my recollections were still misty and unsatisfying.
Labyrinth - You Don't Remember, I'll Never Forget
At the time, I thought I wanted to be a writer. And it occurred to me that the stories I told would benefit from more detail. I had to give names to the colors and odors and feel of things. I had to assess my own feelings, which gave emotion to the landscape. What color were the shadows on the cliff face? I felt confident with purple when it was right there in my notes.
Nightfall, shadows purple down to absolute darkness. Creeped out.
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