Glamour of the high modern studio

Tonight I found this archive for Ernst Scheidegger. He documented some of European modernism's most provocative elements at work in their studios. When I was a young and curious painter I got my hands on some copies of Arts magazine published in the 50's. One issue in particular featured an article with Giacometti. In the photo spread he's smoking cigarettes and pointing at things in his studio in France in Paris. The place is entirely covered in shit that's been scrapped from his paintings and sculptures. In my twenties this was impressive. Seeing all of that chaos and the tension left so ambivalently in the corners of his space served as a spectacular illustration for my own modern life.
I remembered those photo's recently while I was reading through M.J.J. and M.G.'s, The Studio Reader. In particular it was the essay by R.S. He was writing marvelously about Dekooning and the studio that he had had constructed for himself in the space of the then new Not-In-New-York-World. It was the 60's and he was an enshrined Bill and as touched a Bill as he could be while Ab-Ex started it's lilt-ward ebbing.
I thought to myself, how very fond we are of the past and its ample fantasia... How different, how very discrete these silly boys now seem. Pretending to be so primal and earnest that they bristled within their unique dioramas. But from our own scatter blind world of refusion and lamentable butterflies it seems that we can tug at the corners of their shoe boxes. We can recreate the pale light of their crimes and bask away. We can jostle a cigarette or right a fallen prop with the careful flick of a thumbnail.

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Totem

Tonight is old. It's wett but current and bored. I'm watching nothing but stars in the often sky that happen... do... tonight is lame like old, young like song, even as blue... Equal after the sun, noon or scripted yellow you are to me... A we (as sound)

Songlet is Best

fig.0231) FizzGraf MT. "Magical, like a chorus of like minded souls in a froth of cotton fumes." Over fake doors, under refurbished ladders, gypsum board and bent yellow pipes offering us an unmade bed and a stained window. Our one chance at tomorrow. Magnetic guts from at least a thousand cassettes are strewn across the room. Hee-Haw style, fancy dress shoes cling to the floor like it's '86 all over again. Hee-Haw, goes the sound. Hee-Haw, we're closer then we were. Hee-Haw, it's hilarious. Listening for trains, leaning out over the rails like two people with no time at all. Better maps, that's what we need. We could use a melody for singing with this chorus; in whose curious presence more patients wait to be found. With hands over our heads, someone passes by and asks, "gender?" There's stars in this sweet tooth of mine and some atoms left from the sky, Tonight the whole angle of heaven sleeps without light. Ordering its coffee darkest, t

Whiskers, chanting, "swap me, swap me!"

Fig.32) Aging poorly We're just together, taking ourselves for a tidy sum of walk and now our toes are wet and cool in the Lak, beside a cool stone that could drive a modernist to their flint. There's a listening experience that feels prepared, "our's for now, ours it says! Here's the hammer and it's wrapped in its own design already. A union in time-space, this card is our greetings, our massive, our very patience is reflected in this resolve." Suddenly, there's a cut away and she's wearing the pants that I've made for her, slow blue like painted smoke . I'm thinking about her hunched over the kitchen table, something that's stuck. There's a carving knife in her hand but from here, it's the same as an old spoon. From here my computer is sitting on my guilty seat, I'm thinking about champagne and comparing it to a thick wad bees and wondering whats in it for me? It's an anxious season, filled with not enough of anythin

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