Join our new Bloomsday project to bring James Joyce’s Ulysses to life in the ‘selfie’ age. Re-imagine the heart and soul and humor of Joyce’s epic everyman novel with the help of whatever photo-taking device you have at your fingertips. Then share your vision online with the world on June 16 for Bloomsday.
Your challenge is to take a line or passage from the book and create a photo that brings it to life in the world we live in today. There is no shortage of inspirations to chose from in Joyce’s encyclopedia odyssey of our human condition – see a few samples listed below.
Use the photographic muse to break the novel free of the confines of time (1904) and place (Dublin, Ireland) and show the tale anew. Bring forth something you really like in Ulysses and be as daring, poetic, joyful and/or silly as you like to express it with photos. We encourage you to emphasize the human in your photos to match the profusion of humanity stuffed into the book.
Once you’ve taken your photo (plain, fancy, or PhotoShopped), post it along with the Ulysses line that inspired it to your favorite social media channel on Monday, June 16, with the hashtag #Ulyssespic. We will actively promote that hashtag leading up to Bloomsday and will retweet/share pics we really like on @UlyssesLives and Liberate Ulysses (Facebook). Note that Edwardian dress and obvious Irish references are not required.
NO WAIT, THERE’S MORE!
If you’re feeling particularly proud of your work, submit your photo(s) to us for our Bloomsday 2014 #Ulyssespic Competition. Just drop your pic(s) and the Ulysses line(s) in the email to email@example.com before June 15. On Bloomsday we’ll post all suitable entries in an image gallery on this website for the world to enjoy. AND we’ll pick one photo that we feel best evokes the spirit of Ulysses to receive a Grand Joycean Prize of one colorful letterpress-printed broadside of your choice from The Works of Master Poldy (The Salvage Press, Dublin) suitable for framing.
FOR STARTERS a few lines from Ulysses to get you going:
Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather
Nice to hold, cool waxen fruit, hold in the hand, lift it to the nostrils and smell the perfume.
Young life, her lips that gave me pouting. Soft, warm, sticky gumjelly lips.
Mr Bloom stood at the corner, his eyes wandering over the multicoloured hoardings.
Hidden under wild ferns on Howth. Below us bay sleeping sky. No sound.
Blazes Boylan looked in her blouse with more favour, the stalk of the red flower between his smiling teeth
Mr Bloom with his stick gently vexed the thick sand at his foot. Write a message for her.
I love flowers Id love to have the whole place swimming in roses God of heaven theres nothing like nature the wild mountains then the sea and the waves rushing
Ever he would wander, selfcompelled, to the extreme limit of his cometary orbit.
Mr Bloom walked unheeded along his grove by saddened angels, crosses, broken pillars, family vaults, stone hopes praying with upcast eyes, old Ireland’s hearts and hands.
Mr Malachi Mulligan resolved to purchase Lambay island and set up there a national fertilising farm to be named Omphalos with an obelisk hewn and erected after the fashion of Egypt
Plenty to see and hear and feel yet. Feel live warm beings near you. Let them sleep in their maggoty beds. They are not going to get me this innings.
Grafton street gay with housed awnings lured his senses. Muslin prints, silk, dames and dowagers, jingle of harnesses
His downcast eyes followed the silent veining of the oaken slab. Beauty: it curves, curves are beauty. Shapely goddesses, Venus, Juno: curves the world admires.
What in water did Bloom, waterlover, drawer of water, watercarrier, returning to the range, admire?
To catch up and walk behind her if she went slowly, behind her moving hams.
Buck Mulligan slit a steaming scone in two and plastered butter over its smoking pith. He bit off a soft piece hungrily.
Touch me. Soft eyes. Soft soft soft hand. I am lonely here
Gerty MacDowell was seated near her companions, lost in thought, gazing far away.
The boy by the gravehead held his wreath with both hands staring quietly in the black open space. A mound of damp clods rose.
Dr Bloom is bisexually abnormal. He is a finished example of the new womanly man. He is prematurely bald from selfabuse, perversely idealistic in consequence.
Your favorite passages not here? Let us know about it in a comment on this post or via @UlyssesLives and we’ll add it pronto!