Tuesday, July 26, 2011


Toward the end of dinner, I looked down and saw he had drawn this. "Is this my vacuum?" I asked.


Running into tornadoes.

Francis Alys.


Wednesday, July 13, 2011


Moving away from rattled towns,
gaining, as a bird in a dishwasher,
an altered view, the owlish lakefronts
with their punch-clock crews

seem less luckless, the lunch-pail
chatter less dim; even recess seems pleasant.
Schoolmates from the third grade call
and nothing since matters,

you leap into kerosene waters
and swim, leaving the nervous talons
on a perch. The past doesn’t hurt,
the past is divine, everyone

the same age at the same time.
Moving is a white lie, a soft arrow.

-Star Black, via The Paris Review


Thursday, July 07, 2011

Grounds fo' Sculpture, yo.

Sculpture by Clement Meadmore.

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Wednesday, July 06, 2011

Twombly, revisited.

Odd how the mainstream press uses such words as "idiosyncratic" and "inscrutable" to describe Twombly's work and legacy. To me, his work has always seemed intuitive, raw, purely and nakedly expressive. Even the white boxy sculptures, which are mute and ungiving, seem to enact something elemental and human about the impulse to create objects, particularly art, monuments, memorials. The impulse to make something the opposite of oneself--permanent and resolute, open to any and all possibility and immune to death. How does that not translate? Or are these people merely the ones who can never appreciate anything non-representational?

Rest in peace, Mr. Twombly. Your work survives you.


Friday, July 01, 2011


My little painting (see below) has even more resonance today, given the Strauss-Kahn case developments.