vrijdag 31 januari 2014

the industry of art (2)

Gradually. It gradually became. Not all of a. A sudden of all. Not more than suddenly. Somewhere. Something. But there at a precise moment. Convincing. It began as nothing but a shadow, a note and the line above it. For years. Decades. For decades unnoticed. But there at the precise moment. It combined hundreds of places and thousands of novels and sensations out of reach of the precise moment, it combined poems, some of it dreamt before the dog or a child took its tool, it combined French film noir, I more precisely remember from time to time a film with Jeanne Moreau, and the groovy slopes of the seacoast north of Boston. For years, decades, for decades it hadn't been there. Thoughts and talk and movements had made it nearly invisible. People sat at a larger dining table. They discussed how it began, how it had disappeared from the surface of being. The moment it began and the moment it ended have a shadow both. Two or three lines above it. More lines on top of that. Again, again, again. Noticed, unnoticed, noticed, unnoticed, noticed. Emerging from footstep with large shadows that climbed any wall within a second. More than a Tintoretto on the wall in what used to be one of my favourite places. It had been there before birth. The sign of industry. Meadows dissapeared. For a moment of, to my knowledge, indifferent difference abstract painting took its place. Now I see signs on the pavement of sudden beauty. A heap of cardboard boxes presented in such way that its volume became a monument. The curved line of a seagull, a red sign reading 2.6 and faded arrows on the curve near the highway. It gradually became a way of living. I am convinced now of the reason it should have. Genius of industry made it clear, made it visible. Lines on top of it. Precise. Sticking to the Kirchner woodcut a building worker stoops to the rhythm. Historians, amateurs and bourgeois people like Rubens and Veronese. I don't. I started to hate it four decades ago. Look at its surface: a genius for disaster.
Even without the meaning it once may have had.

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