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The Circus of Trust
Airport music

I'm a paragraph. Click here to add your own text and edit me. It’s easy. Just click “Edit Text” or double click me to add your own content and make changes to the font. Feel free to drag and drop me anywhere you like on your page. I’m a great place for you to tell a story and let your users know a little more about you.​This is a great space to write long text about your company and your services. You can use this space to go into a little more detail about your company. 

Books

 
 

It could be in Chernobyl, in Chicago, or in the future; it could be “the Brooklyn Vampire” Albert Fish penning a letter to a grieving mother or “the Yorkshire Ripper” Peter Sutcliffe being described by his paranoid schizophrenic wife; it could be the birth of a child turned literally inside out in a world “more wolf than lion, more hyena than either”; and it could be you, dear reader, “not a person, but a doubt contemptuous of stone and silence and time itself.”

In The Circus of Trust, Mark Tardi implicates us all in a pastoral of detritus where “the same indifferent sun” unflinchingly tracks devastation as part of the most routine actions. Whether the violence is architectural, biological, geological, or technological, we’re warned that atrocity is the most resilient form of human currency: “You don’t have to step on a body to carry death on your shoes.”

The Circus of Trust
Airport music

Mark Tardi works at the intersection of American and Polish culture. Polish artists like Witold Gombrowicz, Stanisław Witkiewicz, Chopin, Witold Lutosławski, and Roman Opalka may be considered points for triangulation. In particular, Opalka’s fixation on numbers both painted and voiced, both palpable and floating resonates with the author’s interest in the quantum world, the impossibility of knowing the exact position of a particle and the need to accept fundamental paradox.

So the present music plays in the tension between impalpable “air” and solid “port”, between a single focus (Sean Scully’s stripes) and shifting directions of torque (Lee Bontecou), between hope stretching outward and implosion of infinite regress. It is, to quote Jennifer Moxley’s definition of the poem, “a bridge of half-measures on the way to the possible.”

Books

It could be in Chernobyl, in Chicago, or in the future; it could be “the Brooklyn Vampire” Albert Fish penning a letter to a grieving mother or “the Yorkshire Ripper” Peter Sutcliffe being described by his paranoid schizophrenic wife; it could be the birth of a child turned literally inside out in a world “more wolf than lion, more hyena than either”; and it could be you, dear reader, “not a person, but a doubt contemptuous of stone and silence and time itself.”

In The Circus of Trust, Mark Tardi implicates us all in a pastoral of detritus where “the same indifferent sun” unflinchingly tracks devastation as part of the most routine actions. Whether the violence is architectural, biological, geological, or technological, we’re warned that atrocity is the most resilient form of human currency: “You don’t have to step on a body to carry death on your shoes.”

The Circus of Trust
Airport music

Mark Tardi works at the intersection of American and Polish culture. Polish artists like Witold Gombrowicz, Stanisław Witkiewicz, Chopin, Witold Lutosławski, and Roman Opalka may be considered points for triangulation. In particular, Opalka’s fixation on numbers both painted and voiced, both palpable and floating resonates with the author’s interest in the quantum world, the impossibility of knowing the exact position of a particle and the need to accept fundamental paradox.

So the present music plays in the tension between impalpable “air” and solid “port”, between a single focus (Sean Scully’s stripes) and shifting directions of torque (Lee Bontecou), between hope stretching outward and implosion of infinite regress. It is, to quote Jennifer Moxley’s definition of the poem, “a bridge of half-measures on the way to the possible.”

Books

It could be in Chernobyl, in Chicago, or in the future; it could be “the Brooklyn Vampire” Albert Fish penning a letter to a grieving mother or “the Yorkshire Ripper” Peter Sutcliffe being described by his paranoid schizophrenic wife; it could be the birth of a child turned literally inside out in a world “more wolf than lion, more hyena than either”; and it could be you, dear reader, “not a person, but a doubt contemptuous of stone and silence and time itself.”

In The Circus of Trust, Mark Tardi implicates us all in a pastoral of detritus where “the same indifferent sun” unflinchingly tracks devastation as part of the most routine actions. Whether the violence is architectural, biological, geological, or technological, we’re warned that atrocity is the most resilient form of human currency: “You don’t have to step on a body to carry death on your shoes.”

The Circus of Trust
Airport music

Mark Tardi works at the intersection of American and Polish culture. Polish artists like Witold Gombrowicz, Stanisław Witkiewicz, Chopin, Witold Lutosławski, and Roman Opalka may be considered points for triangulation. In particular, Opalka’s fixation on numbers both painted and voiced, both palpable and floating resonates with the author’s interest in the quantum world, the impossibility of knowing the exact position of a particle and the need to accept fundamental paradox.

So the present music plays in the tension between impalpable “air” and solid “port”, between a single focus (Sean Scully’s stripes) and shifting directions of torque (Lee Bontecou), between hope stretching outward and implosion of infinite regress. It is, to quote Jennifer Moxley’s definition of the poem, “a bridge of half-measures on the way to the possible.”

Books

Euclid Shudders

Euclid Shudders opens with this line from Gertrude Stein: “What is the difference / between arithmetic and a noun.” This is something that Tardi exaimines relentlessly and with a calculated efficiency. A “squirrel is a swan,” a “cough is a couch,” meaning is being defined and redefined. Objects and concepts take their place and then dance around the edge of our perception in Tardi’s phenomenological verse.

Euclid might well shudder at how far the line has come. In his wonderfully unruly first book, Mark Tardi composes an isotopic realm of getting and letting go, a kind of chemical algebra of the alleged world as it verges into music.

––Elizabeth Willis

It could be in Chernobyl, in Chicago, or in the future; it could be “the Brooklyn Vampire” Albert Fish penning a letter to a grieving mother or “the Yorkshire Ripper” Peter Sutcliffe being described by his paranoid schizophrenic wife; it could be the birth of a child turned literally inside out in a world “more wolf than lion, more hyena than either”; and it could be you, dear reader, “not a person, but a doubt contemptuous of stone and silence and time itself.”

In The Circus of Trust, Mark Tardi implicates us all in a pastoral of detritus where “the same indifferent sun” unflinchingly tracks devastation as part of the most routine actions. Whether the violence is architectural, biological, geological, or technological, we’re warned that atrocity is the most resilient form of human currency: “You don’t have to step on a body to carry death on your shoes.”

The Circus of Trust
Airport music

Mark Tardi works at the intersection of American and Polish culture. Polish artists like Witold Gombrowicz, Stanisław Witkiewicz, Chopin, Witold Lutosławski, and Roman Opalka may be considered points for triangulation. In particular, Opalka’s fixation on numbers both painted and voiced, both palpable and floating resonates with the author’s interest in the quantum world, the impossibility of knowing the exact position of a particle and the need to accept fundamental paradox.

So the present music plays in the tension between impalpable “air” and solid “port”, between a single focus (Sean Scully’s stripes) and shifting directions of torque (Lee Bontecou), between hope stretching outward and implosion of infinite regress. It is, to quote Jennifer Moxley’s definition of the poem, “a bridge of half-measures on the way to the possible.”

Books

Euclid Shudders

Euclid Shudders opens with this line from Gertrude Stein: “What is the difference / between arithmetic and a noun.” This is something that Tardi exaimines relentlessly and with a calculated efficiency. A “squirrel is a swan,” a “cough is a couch,” meaning is being defined and redefined. Objects and concepts take their place and then dance around the edge of our perception in Tardi’s phenomenological verse.

"Euclid might well shudder at how far the line has come. In his wonderfully unruly first book, Mark Tardi composes an isotopic realm of getting and letting go, a kind of chemical algebra of the alleged world as it verges into music."

–Elizabeth Willis