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Guido Vermeulen's mail art envelopes are like worlds into themselves and at the same time they are part of the much larger whole.

(a comment by NANCY BELL SCOTT, USA, on the IUOMA network)

Guido's paintings are like finding images in the clouds
(a comment by Kathleen D. Johnson, USA, on IUOMA)

Guido does not paint monsters but spirits and ghosts, full of love, tenderness and compassion
(LIZA LEYLA during a conversation, Belgium)

His ability to express emotions through painting is a beautiful gift. Allowing oneself to feel sadness is the most direct route through grief. His paintings feel peaceful and kind.

(STEPHEN WALKER, USA)


My life is shifting... Your work is intangible, ethereal, cosmically rewarding. i eat it up & savor it like a great sandwich! It made my day!
(Lisa PEREZ, USA, on IUOMA)

Thank you for the TALISMAN painting on the envelope. It is real cool and creepy at the same time. I haven’t seen a piece of abstract capture such as pain and emotion so well since I visited the museum of art in Toledo. Bravo!
(Sarah Jo Pender, USA, from the Indiana Women’s Prison)

I suppose you could characterize Guido's painting style as expressionist. I know he is very interested in dreams as a source for art and poetry, and these particular chapter pages seem like shadowy dream corridors filled with shifting images and scenes. The Michaux quotes work as a counterpoint, Guido's art is taking over when the limits of language have been reached.
(De Villo Sloan, USA, on my tribute pages to Henri Michaux, see LAMUSAR blog)

Guido’s art expressions are always poems and they show us the reality of our real faces and souls (Mariana Serban, Romania)

His titles have both inspired and educated me (Alicia Starr, USA)

donderdag 12 augustus 2010

6 AUGUST 8.15 AM



Intervention on a mail art envelope for David Stone, USA. Reference to the dropping of the A bomb on Hiroshima. I also added the English translation of the poem "H" published in the edition "the alphabet of love".


H

Dedicated to Frank Dingenen

Dear Hermes,

Of winds I'm not afraid
but scared to death
I am of the air
displacement.

For instance what remained
as glue on the collective iris
a few seconds after 8.15 AM
on August 6 in the year 45.

Indefinite time later
an orphan plays in an unknown crater
with a grinning hand-grenade.

The bird as spectator
doesn't whistle any longer.
It burned the heaven of the larynx
for the sake of peace.

And we, Hermes?
We who without wings wearisome continue
We attach tubular bells to our tormenting cancers.

Guide us disguised as dogs for the blind
to the end of seeing
to the and of time awareness
of a falling dream drowning in the mud.

Love,

Guido
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