No Secret…
Someone once told me that every artist should have a secret body of work that they never show.
Omnibus
Infra-ordinary and invariables
“How can we speak of these “common things”, how rather, can we stalk them, how can we flush them out, rescue them from the mire in which they remain stuck, how can we give them a meaning, a tongue, so that they are at last able to speak of the way things are, the way we are?”
Osservanza
Walking along a dirt road how many pebbles would you pick up before you found a second to match the first?
Lies
Painting and dreams overlap in their ability to tell us not only convincing truths, but in their ability to tell us equally convincing lies.
Morandi
Morandi’s switch from the clean opacity of Surrealism to his subsequent translucent and illusive impressions speaks to me about the inconstancy of time and ones own changing sense of it.
Postcard from Venice
I had meant to write. I have a whole stack of postcards – even a pack I bought at a church that had obviously been taken in the early 1950’s – full of strong jawed gondoliers assertively clutching their oars and gazing over the Grand Canal like the early explorers must have looked out over the Grand Canyon…
San Michele
San Michele at closing time. Row upon row. Modernist architecture mixes with the Baroque. A voice that reminds me of Fahrenheit 451/ 1984 announces in many languages that it is the closing hour. But before that the bells ring the hour, echoing over the water. The perpetual fountains stop their flowing by the same clock.
Water and Voices
Water echoes like a bell in languages I do not understand, I stand on the dock at San Michele while full Vaporettos pass one after the other.
Francis Bacon
Francis Bacon at the Met Hockney says time and space can’t exist well together in the same 2D surface – how does that relate to Francis Bacon’s works? Does Bacon’s flattening-out equal the inclusion of time as a formal element? Or is time merely implied conceptually through the literal device of multiplication or blurring in …
Francis Bacon, Proust and Painting
I wake at night and sense myself to be a knot of flesh, privileging one leg over the other – twisted and stuck out of the bedclothes. Another day and I sit in the park. The people on the grass nearby: asymmetrical and balanced on an elbow or pinning under a leg, seem to grow from the green like great fleshy blossoms, spring-pale and strangely foreshortened.