I caught this Cy Twombly exhibition in New York just at the end of its run. The museum happened to be open on Monday due to the Martin Luther King holiday.
I’ve been getting interested in Cy Twombly on Pinterest because of his sketchiness and inclusion of handwriting in his work.
This monumental Treatise on the Veil (Second Version) is rarely exhibited because of its size.
I couldn’t take pictures in the gallery but I grabbed this one from the website.
I sketched out some couplets to capture my first reactions to the Treatise.
An imperfectly cleaned chalkboard
that opens to soft drips and imperfect coatings
At “eye-level” imperfectly applied lines of chalk
two evanescent traces of blue and blue
Scribbling – why? why is the artist’s
handwriting so atrocious?
Conscious enough to notice a mistake
in the interpretive panels –
I think they wrote 4
whereas he was writing 8
why one person’s traces preserved
the others a vast garbage heap?
I liked the patched together nature of the studies, loaded down with tape and scribbling, as well as stamped with dates and numerals. Trying to organize the nature of art.
Yes I know, it’s cold in the Northeastern US.
My rule of thumb: Never complain about the weather. Be happy to let the weather do whatever it needs to do.
One thing I feel though: the landscape should reflect the temperature. When it’s cold, there should always be a coating of snow.
Question from Pascal Auclair: Can attention alter the world?
The word “home” has been on my mind.
My cell phone has no service where we stay up in Maine. I am unlocated. I can’t record my walks.
We had a sense of dislocation where we stayed, although we are comfortable there. Part of being at home was missing. I’m not sure what this is. We didn’t spread out our belongings.
On the other hand, leaving in the dark of early morning felt like leaving home. Maybe I had made a home in the landscape by walking.
Being at home I notice my negativity toward it. With a sense of humility, I walked in the neighborhood. The humility came from knowing all the people who were at home in the neighborhood. I am one of them.
I think I have felt all my life that where I live is just temporary. Not a home. Is it a deficit in the homemaking instinct? Or my imagination?
At home on the cushion? In the studio? Online? In the office? Where do I feel the strongest sensation of being at home? In the woods? (but not at night)
Leaving Wednesday for Florida. Wednesday to Tuesday. Away from home.
Faculty of discrimination –
What is worth reading and what is not
What is worth paying attention to and what is not
What is worth listening to and what is not
What is worth spending time doing and what is not
Somehow life has become clogged by inputs and the discriminating faculty has been overwhelmed.
Then again, my starting point was pretty discriminating, so I don’t think I’ve regressed too much.
Interesting read over the holidays: Marie Kondo’s “The life-changing magic of tidying up; the Japanese art of decluttering and organizing.” I picked up this small book on impulse from a bookstore counter display, a gift for me. It is quirky – or maybe just Japanese – and personal. Her method centers around the emotion of “a spark of joy.” The last chapter was so lyrical I almost felt tears start to form.
I found this quote today reading an article about Ray Johnson. It seems related.
Johnson’s operative principle that language and visual data form enclosed systems of self-replicating “codes” that preclude original expression and prevent meanings beyond their sound and fury.
So so so so much input is sound and fury and so little “spark of joy.”
More from the article:
art operates not as a reassuring by-product of existence, or a sole commodity produced by one isolated person, but as a collaboration involving many people, correspondences in a humanistic sense as well as an aesthetic one—art as an open-ended undertaking, a shared state of being present to someone else rather than art as a hallowed object to be hung on a white wall.
Direct communication may be the biggest fallacy of the instant messaging era.
Not Nothing, Siglio Press