Category: art

Parts and Paintings

Language of forms.

I wanted a language, the artist told us, that felt consistent. 

Let me show you, the artist offered. The bodies. 

And there they were. Body as image, a cipher to be doubled, dismembered, cradled, lifted, evaded––each exceeding the limits of its own banks, overflowing. 

What do you call this one? We asked the artist.

Unfinished, the artist told us. That is why we are here, still looking. 

***

Inspired by the work of Salman Toor.

Late Work

An offering to other hands.

Over large canvasses, he painted whole body, whole space, his life. 

When his given form could no longer rise to meet the wall, his family offered theirs as new mediums. 

He used a laser pointer to guide their hands, the paint. Saying No, there, and Yes, like that. The work evolved, with them. 

I miss being able to do it myself, he said, but it’s about the art and you have to go where it takes you. 

***

Inspired by the life and work of of Frank Bowling.

The Influence of Moonshine

Reflections on night work.

It’s easy to give short shrift to surface reflections. No one wants to be called shallow, but look at the distances to be traveled here. I know a guy who only paints at night, his subject always other paintings, who limits himself to reading them by moonlight. I asked him why. As he sees it, the fully lit subject offers a false sense of clarity which masks the problem of too much information. The more you look, the more a well-lit form will start to fold, collapsing in on itself. It can be very distracting. This happens to me all the time, so I was very intrigued by his solution. By taking away the pretense of clarity, he gave himself over to what he could imagine. By removing the pretense of originality and limiting himself to the study of another’s work he was paradoxically freed. As he puts it, I take comfort in the discomfort of not being myself.

***

Inspired when I encountered a description of David Schutter’s Night Work. I take creative liberties with this imagined interpretation of the artist’s process, adapting insights from a recent BOMB interview.

The Experience

Reflections at play.

We mean to be sophisticated in our tastes. But this is absurd. Really. This whole idea of art we step into. The way you demand we become it. The size and height of these rooms, the excess of mirrors, balloons. You invite us in––for pictures, of course. For the experience. Mirror, mirror, mirror, mirror––on the wall, ceiling, floor. Which is which? Wall, wall, wall, wall. And everywhere we look––even out, there we are. You call it the reflection room. We are delighted. 

***

Inspired by an experience in one of the Infinity Rooms created by artist Yayoi Kusama.

Necessary Departure

Home and away.

In the lens of this longing reach, the soft give of fabric draping over a mother’s head, breast, shoulders––squeezes the chest-bird home like, yes, you will again––someday, even if. Ever.

And the light kiss into bowed bodies in sea, these water-slick skins, fog bedding of hilltops, as if to cushion the fall.

There was––there it was, had been.

You will be––the chest bird strains against its skeleton, not to be kept from that acacia on the hill, blue green in the sunset that is too bright already to be anything you know, and how do you explain this except that it must be all.

***

Inspired by the photography of Ismali Folaranmi Odetola, whose “Necessary Departure” I recently encountered in an airport.

Attentions

Notes on how to read.

There is a mind that keeps close watch on the dew-slick grass, hopping low, head turned to hear what crawls, to find what fuels the next flight. After this, a watcher in the window, low chirps from whiskered mouth, the fine hairs of the tail feather-tuned with exquisite precision. Another eye will notice how that which manages to still be finely tuned to details in their liquid form while retaining the soft pliancy of a chest-sleeper is enough to swell some subcutaneous expanse behind the ribcage, preparing to soar from what seems to contain its swell. There is temporal awareness, temporary sight. And there is space, breathing enough of nothing to make room for the next renewal.

A Simulacrum

Through the fourth wall.

In the beginning, it was all about the spectacle of the created world. The chopping off of parts, the restoration, like Tah-dah! Over time, it became more interesting to work on making the stage disappear, to discuss how the engineering works and who it’s for. With a great show, the performance is always for a specific member of the audience.

What’s worth examining now is not the tah-dah, but the questions–– how is that working? and what’s next? There can be more revelation in how the problems and confusion play out. When someone struggles in a real way, they are less self-conscious. Something peeks through.

***

The title of this post comes from a play created by an interesting collaboration between playwright Lucas Hnath and magician Steve Cuiffo and the voice is adapted from comments made by both artists in various interviews on their developing work.

Abakans

Every tangle of thread.

Where mystery fell marching to

our exile, we lifted its mass 

from the ditch to hold 

it behind our coats, our lips, 

to wrap our bodies 

around its form, 

for warmth.

Faces may deceive, but the back 

cannot lie. 

Between us, a single question 

loops a mute refrain.

See? See.

***

Inspired by the work of Magdalena Abakanowicz. The title of this post comes from some of the figures that she created.

The Chase

How to work a running stitch.

What kind of poet would I be if I couldn’t fix a seam? You asked, incredulous, adding, you know, it’s not rocket science. When the language got too tight around our necks you said Look and undid the top buttons, like There and How hard was that? and it was obvious we had a long way to go.

I mean to live, you said, and invited us to join you, running––your kites on laundry lines, your great river piping underground, leaking secrets from the dripping faucets of our fourth-floor walk-up. Your hero at the mop, finishing a shift while the oracle she’s come to visit goes fishing for change in her apron. 

The legs of our love tended to falter. Fatigued, we wondered how you kept yours onward. Once, ascending a hill, you reminded, don’t look up. You can follow the street as well as the sky, and as we looked for your next words you called back, not even at me, striding ahead. Eventually, we learned to follow the backs of your legs and fall into a rocking trance. The grates of sewers punctuating our periphery, we found our breaths in time with the river below us, and as the miles went on, stitched our single body back to some subterranean source.

***

Inspired by Anne Winters, especially Night Wash.

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