Of perfect draughtsmanship it works out to just the right number. Plain plank painted every hue of blue on the canvas numbers ten-again, depending-could be seven.Īnd the platform: four, or six? Are these tricks of the eye or the mind-or math? By the magic The horizon is one, or four, depending on how you tally. That tree is Watcher and Scribe, the Presence of the World, and at its baseĪ face is embedded, of some Bosch-spawned horror, gaze trained beyondīorders, back to the Middle Ages, or maybe on its own shadow. The only thing obviously dead, unless those buttered cliffs are someone’s skin. The only thing anchored, unless you allow the cliffs The only thing vertical, unless you stand beneath the cliffs The artist provides no answer, perhaps presuming the question sufficient. What of the copper watch, alone in original form, though a cluster of ants spews from its center Of her golden prison melts in the sepia heat, its silver sisters hung limpįrom a branch long dead, or laid carefully Is there a reason a single housefly struggles against sky-blue stickiness-imperiled heroineĪwaiting the locomotive crush of the sweeping minute hand-or why the bottom Lips fading nearly without notice, nose pillowed on his own ear? Why does the artist’s head melt, deconstruct, feather into foreground loam- teeth, tongue, The same sun, not battered by these calm seas, or botheredīy melting timepieces draped about the landscape. The sliced steep slopes of those cliffs could be anywhere-say, Yosemite-buttered by “Those who do not want to imitate anything,
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