Skip to main content

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.








Comments

Popular posts from this blog

In fashion, passive is to envy the figure smote.

Juniper, cedar and all that's old tends to settle on the bus in the corner by this door. It's not quick, joints are popping like failure. Left alone in the kitchen, looking for matches until it can light the stove. "There once was a night here," I've said as much before.
Corn conjured syrup from the corn that I brought from the back of the store. The simple pleasure of falling into that warm slip isn't like drying off or tempting the man at all. It's a lottery with pages of never knowing it all the first time that I was there.
A three way intersection where the street is wet. There's shrink-wrap that's been spooled across each of the pedestrian walkways. It's secured with bulky knots to the street lamp, the sign post and the scooter at each of the corners. There's a garage door or something else done up in yellow with blue steel doors. In the street there's garbage and soon enough an umbrella will join your car keys.
There's alr…

Got a dog in my earring (an instance of 3)

H' after everything is a mailbox stamp knows. Don't, it's all bad. Like a captain bad.


Own Mah Own Rose

What say the fallen in the Vestibule, late to dinner  Warm as a garden chair Yes to that, to tea and all  in the green as pale as peaches will get 

Turd Grinder IV: Keep me in line for a little while longer, just until you have to go again. The dark wave and the first jolt from my morning coffee are elements that have yet to sheep. Looking through a ton of old glass is hard. Sitting down and sifting through the odd bits of sparkle and dust left inside this hidey-hole at the bottom of this calendar. There's almost always more bitter mixed in there then there is the sweet.  Fontso: I'm so happy-happy to see that this work is being edited down. All of it's been sitting on the back of my desk forever. Where plastic gets soft in the sun and the desks window looks out south all day long it's always so hot. Turd Grinder IV: There's safety in warmth, freedom from reprisal among the pillows, in the soft down. The clock inside is as deep as a clouds kiss.  Fontso: Onion thugs, yello…