Be my Guest: Billy Collins and William Kentridge

BE MY GUEST is a venue for others to share their art; I assemble between creators in my virtual sitting room. Linear time and locality are not relevant.


Introduction to Poetry by:  Billy Collins

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slideor press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem’s room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author’s name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.

Billy Collins and William Kentridge are both an inner master-teachers of mine. Alongside their wonderful art- they give me courage to deal with the loneliness of the studio process. Their creativity, humour and humbleness is deeply meaningful to me. They both teach me that in the studio – “Anything is possible”.

Since I think they share a sense of humour and the ability to see their humanity from aside- I wish them both to meet here.

I chose  fragments  of their work where  I see a common denominator

Instructions Collins gives his students are masterly crafted by William Kentridge


Perhaps anything is possible and they will  both to be a part of the project: Reviving Ancient Alexandria Library.

I wonder which cultural ancestor each of them would choose to relate to.

Ancient Alexandria Library-my story, part 1

Ancient Alexandria Library-my story, part 2

Ancient Alexandria Library-my story, part 3

On top: William Kentrige drawing  Two Typwriters.

2 Responses


    Wilson Bentley (1865-1931) of Jericho, Vermont, pursued his lifelong dream of photographing snow crystals. Over his lifetime he captured 5000 snowflakes, not finding two alike.

    The man-hero is not the exceptional master,
    But he that of repetition is most master.
    Wallace Stevens

    Some things we hardly need to say
    “Stay!” to.
    Like mountains and stars.

    Willed by nature to be here
    as further candidates for memory,
    we watch, and point out, and record.
    To the Destroying Angel’s “And
    who are you?” each answers
    “Just one of the born, Sir,
    with this body for a kingdom.”

    In this game, we know, the wall
    lifts an indifferent shoulder
    to the ball.

    But still we play
    at telling straight out–
    (“They will get it straight one day at the Sorbonne”)–
    at showing and telling once
    after once.

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