Published on Mondays, with columns by Artists and Writers
Published since 2002, an Ocean and Pounds publication
Click here to subscribe



by Fiona Smyth

View archive

by Kai Chan

"Family Tie #4", 1995, button, string, nail

View archive



Poem a Week
by Gary Michael Dault


Moon Poem Written Inside the Back Cover
Of Jack Kerouac’s novel, Desolation Angels.
in Desolation Angels
on page
Kerouac writes
“the moon
is a piece of me.” *
just a rock
like a freezing clock
ticking around
the sky
like a glass eye
moon like
a fumbling
never to find at last
a starry wife
never to find
at last
a soft bed
to thrust into
and hold fast
*Jack Kerouac, Desolation Angels (New York: Bantam Books,
1966), p. 73


DOUBLE DOUBLE issue 0820-2021

View Current Issue

Here and There, a poem by Holly Lee / Lee Ka-sing - Images for the cover and chapter-divider pages of 也斯 Leung Ping-kwan's book "Cities of Memory, Cities of Fabrication" (1993).

by Madeleine Slavick 思樂維

ellipsis isle and handle with moat

View archive

From the Notebooks (2010-2021)
by Gary Michael Dault

From the Notebooks, 2010-2021.
Number 99: A sketchy work from January 15, 2005.

This sprightly if threadbare drawing-painting is apparently from 2005, five years earlier than the boundary-dates I decided to work within (2010-2021) in selecting images from my notebooks for reproduction here.

I include it because of its insouciance (for me, at least).  The picture surfaced during one of my repeated and always hopeless attempts to clean up and organize my studio, and it simply seemed too vivacious to stuff into yet another waiting envelope.

I am a pushover for wayward blobs and smears.  I find it almost impossible (so why try?) not to attempt to rescue them through a new contextualizing.

Some may see this drawing's jaunty abbreviation as arrogance.  I see it as tenderness.

Caffeine Reveries
by Shelley Savor

Heat Wave

View archive


Some Trees
by Malgorzata Wolak Dault

Number 89

Window on a Successful Man

He can't look at the moon without calculating the distance.
He can't look at a tree without calculating the firewood.
He can't look at a painting without calculating the price.
He can't look at a menu without calculating the calories.
He can't look at a man without calculating the advantage.
He can't look at a woman without calculating the risk.

Eduardo Galeano, Walking Words (New York: Norton,
1995), p. 141.

Travelling Palm Snapshots
by Tamara Chatterjee

Uzbekistan (November, 2019) – We wandered back past the Kalta Minor Minaret, the turquoise hues illuminating in the bright winter sun. Detouring back towards musicians we had seen earlier in the day, we discovered that the crowd was larger. We watched as several women joined in the serenade, dancing to the rhythmic tunes. As the musical session ended, three women approached us with an inquisitive examination and to take selfies.

View archive


The Photograph
coordinated by Kamelia Pezeshki

Desert of Urmia by Behrad Abuzar

"Lake Urmia in Iran was once the world's second largest salt lake, but in a matter of years it shrank to almost nothing. Now, the lake is slowly coming back to life". BBC, Peter Schwartzstein, February 25, 2021

View archive

by Cem Turgay

Leaving Taichung Station
by Bob Black

ボケット:  Boketto
(letters to a wife, found in a box)

"He knew nothing to do but inhabit the paradoxes."--William McIlvanney

Letter 3
Dear Tenderness,


To you, even in winter, full-bellied, 
I wobble and space my hope toward home.

To rhyme the darkness with ringing:
bead against wrist, tooth against tongue
and the boom of your heart click, swaying.

Words, like small billows under hull, tiller the jib of my meandering thoughts. Pictures, like wisps of exhalation, rudder the carriage of my body’s hinting. I have always worked both, rhyme and flap, to set my life’s navigation right—Ballast of Boom and Keel—the steerage from which I have tried to helm my way home. A halyard in its pulling.

How does one see through the clouded time of unseeing, especially when they themselves tell stories with pictures while all along they have struggled with the nature of how to see. So, it is me. I am blind

Bone and feather-less wing, knobby beak and elongated rib of our throat: all that is left of our singing when the song has gone wrong, all that is left when the singing has gone rung.

moonlight on the water, like the hair of a lovers’ slumbering length across my chest in the cool and rounded belly of the night....

pieta and the thinness of our wire souls

keep lighting tunnels

I am smalling, hold me.


View archive


(Breakfast area and small shop)

Located on the second floor of an art space, INDEXG Bed and Breakfast has 4 guest rooms, all with ensuite bathroom. Since 2008, INDEXG B&B have served curators, artists, art-admirers, collectors and professionals from different cities visiting and working in Toronto.

50 Gladstone Ave, Toronto

ISSN 1918-6991
Published on Mondays, with columns by Artists and Writers
Published since 2002, an Ocean and Pounds publication


Click here to Subscribe


Back to blog