We should all receive government grants to go out into the woods, make a clearing, and reconstruct our grandmother’s house, with our bare hands, out of twigs and leaves and mud and whatever else we can scrape together, as best we can recall it.
Then let’s fill the thing with scraps and bits, dead animals and abandoned dishwasher parts, this standing in for that, that meaning another thing, all the fascinating objects and icons we can remember being entranced by in our earliest days.
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There’s an Archie Rand painting in the Brooklyn College library which declares in passably pretty cursive red oil-paint (on a ground which I recalled as a slightly less saturated red, but was in fact a deep blue), “Dinah Washington.” (1970)
As I approached it from the side, just two days after having listened to Archie Rand himself speak on and on and on and on (with the promise that he would be doing so every Tuesday night of that semester, on and on and on) about how his goodbuddiez Malcolm Morley and Philip Guston and Jerry Saltz had said, in drunken conversation, this and that and this and that about the correct/incorrect manner of making and appreciating art, I was fairly certain it actually read, “Dead Thoughts.” (2011)
It’s good to have word-painters.
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