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6.05.2016 Basement: Philadelphia Museum of Art: Summer 1996 Art, it would seem, is a nice way of saying that everything resides in hell— the pictures are anguish— the negatives, hiding somewhere, ecstasy. Pictures mounted on plain grey walls. Slow viewers puzzle themselves; sashay, bug-like, into corners. I am not, unfortunately, basking in the open glow of abundant creativity, but am thrashed by a sense of impotence. How do I let the images in? The blonde over there: does she do penance by giving head? Fractions, pinpoints of light distill from low ceiling— footsteps, cacophony of breaths being drawn. Eyes of an artist, mine of a bloodhound. Staid types sniff the walls. Art, it would seem, is a nice way of saying that everyone resides in hell— the people are anguish— the angels, hiding somewhere, ecstasy. posted by Adam Fieled on Sunday, June 05, 2016 Post a Comment
Basement: Philadelphia Museum of Art: Summer 1996 Art, it would seem, is a nice way of saying that everything resides in hell— the pictures are anguish— the negatives, hiding somewhere, ecstasy. Pictures mounted on plain grey walls. Slow viewers puzzle themselves; sashay, bug-like, into corners. I am not, unfortunately, basking in the open glow of abundant creativity, but am thrashed by a sense of impotence. How do I let the images in? The blonde over there: does she do penance by giving head? Fractions, pinpoints of light distill from low ceiling— footsteps, cacophony of breaths being drawn. Eyes of an artist, mine of a bloodhound. Staid types sniff the walls. Art, it would seem, is a nice way of saying that everyone resides in hell— the people are anguish— the angels, hiding somewhere, ecstasy. posted by Adam Fieled on Sunday, June 05, 2016 Post a Comment
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