Every act of creation is first an act of destruction. – Pablo Picasso
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Red flowing into blue making purple and violet smoke; sheets of white raining down behind pretty blue swirls; grey gases mixing with the blues, reds and whites – you’d expect to see something like this if you could combine a valentine with a funeral. Everyone who’s visited this blog knows how much love you put into it. Imagine our surprise when we came here in the final days of winter only to find this gorgeous painting and above it the words, “The End. The Death of this Blog”. The painting was reminiscent of Turner’s smoky landscapes, but warmer and more intimate, like a young woman sitting in a violet colored room with the lights turned down low and the sunlight disappearing along the horizon outside her window. She’s sipping a margarita and humming the melody of a Bessie Smith song that her mother, long ago while holding her in the dark, sang softly in her ear. It’s sad, but at the same time warm, tender and enduring, and somehow hopeful. ... In the wee hours of Easter Saturday morning while on a jet plane to New York City, traveling with my daughter to visit my son, I scrawled these thoughts (about the death of your blog and the painting that accompanied the epitaph) into a small notebook. She kept looking up from her book to tell me how big and loopy my writing is. I didn’t want her to read it. I was thinking of William Carlos Williams scratching down poems in between house calls. Later I got a picture of my daughter and I at the MET standing next to a Charles Demuth painting that was inspired by one of Williams’s poems. As we were snapping pictures there I was thinking about the guard at the MCA (was it a rock-album-art exhibit?) telling you and Darrin you’re not allowed to take pictures in the museum. … I wanted to say something about cookies, crafts, kids, life and art, and your moments of doubt and confusion. I say “moments” because the voice that comes through in your posts is confident and friendly and not at all confused. Moments of doubt are natural and healthy; I don’t think we can reaffirm and strengthen our faith without them. I wrote a couple pages about my thoughts on art. I included stories about Michelangelo, Picasso and one that Giacometti told about if he were in a fire and was faced with saving either a Rembrandt, or a cat. What art is is in flux. I’m drawn to art and artists that blur the lines between art and life. Your blog does that. I decide against saying too much about art, because I think you know more about it than I do. Did you know that Mother’s Day is not a Hallmark Holiday? It began as a call to unite women against war. Politicians will never bring an end to war. It’s going to take moms, poets and artists like you. In the days leading up to the war in Iraq our genteel First Lady and librarian (not one of those subversive ones who refuse to tell the FBI what books their patrons are checking out) Laura Bush thought she’d invite some poets to the White House for tea, to discuss Emily Dickinson, Walt Whitman and Langston Hughes. But her guests were coming armed with poems about war that included arms, legs and heads being blown apart. That’s the thing about artists (and these poets were all artists) they’re often obsessed with making it real. Of course Laura had to cancel. Patrick. PS. I’m glad it turned out that you lied about killing this thing. I’m sorry this post isn’t about “Painting on Wood”. I need time to take in these pictures. I still want to buy a Mandala!
1 comment:
Red flowing into blue making purple and violet smoke; sheets of white raining down behind pretty blue swirls; grey gases mixing with the blues, reds and whites – you’d expect to see something like this if you could combine a valentine with a funeral. Everyone who’s visited this blog knows how much love you put into it. Imagine our surprise when we came here in the final days of winter only to find this gorgeous painting and above it the words, “The End. The Death of this Blog”. The painting was reminiscent of Turner’s smoky landscapes, but warmer and more intimate, like a young woman sitting in a violet colored room with the lights turned down low and the sunlight disappearing along the horizon outside her window. She’s sipping a margarita and humming the melody of a Bessie Smith song that her mother, long ago while holding her in the dark, sang softly in her ear. It’s sad, but at the same time warm, tender and enduring, and somehow hopeful.
... In the wee hours of Easter Saturday morning while on a jet plane to New York City, traveling with my daughter to visit my son, I scrawled these thoughts (about the death of your blog and the painting that accompanied the epitaph) into a small notebook. She kept looking up from her book to tell me how big and loopy my writing is. I didn’t want her to read it. I was thinking of William Carlos Williams scratching down poems in between house calls. Later I got a picture of my daughter and I at the MET standing next to a Charles Demuth painting that was inspired by one of Williams’s poems. As we were snapping pictures there I was thinking about the guard at the MCA (was it a rock-album-art exhibit?) telling you and Darrin you’re not allowed to take pictures in the museum.
… I wanted to say something about cookies, crafts, kids, life and art, and your moments of doubt and confusion. I say “moments” because the voice that comes through in your posts is confident and friendly and not at all confused. Moments of doubt are natural and healthy; I don’t think we can reaffirm and strengthen our faith without them. I wrote a couple pages about my thoughts on art. I included stories about Michelangelo, Picasso and one that Giacometti told about if he were in a fire and was faced with saving either a Rembrandt, or a cat. What art is is in flux. I’m drawn to art and artists that blur the lines between art and life. Your blog does that. I decide against saying too much about art, because I think you know more about it than I do.
Did you know that Mother’s Day is not a Hallmark Holiday? It began as a call to unite women against war. Politicians will never bring an end to war. It’s going to take moms, poets and artists like you. In the days leading up to the war in Iraq our genteel First Lady and librarian (not one of those subversive ones who refuse to tell the FBI what books their patrons are checking out) Laura Bush thought she’d invite some poets to the White House for tea, to discuss Emily Dickinson, Walt Whitman and Langston Hughes. But her guests were coming armed with poems about war that included arms, legs and heads being blown apart. That’s the thing about artists (and these poets were all artists) they’re often obsessed with making it real. Of course Laura had to cancel.
Patrick.
PS. I’m glad it turned out that you lied about killing this thing. I’m sorry this post isn’t about “Painting on Wood”. I need time to take in these pictures. I still want to buy a Mandala!
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