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Showing posts from June 18, 2015

Owing To Art As Experience (1934)

The Monstre' robe is wool, it's not deaf. The floor is solid and his shoes sound worn. Still, it's a fine and comfortable picture, a fire casting it's questions on the high wall. Searching for an intentional agent among the heaviest of the low apricots that he's devised. Let's suppose that the certainty of an old brown ladder is equal to the comfort of a well lit room. That the finitude he experiences is not a barrier so much as it's the threshold to a more significant scheme. Let's assume that this is a comfort to the man with his hands in his pockets right now.
Straight lines are what Dewey flirts with. The order that society, or more precisely Dewey seeks within art is an ephemeral ideal. It's easily lost in the ubiquity of a loud culture of hotel rooms and dirty wigs. Dewey's conception of art is that of any ordinary tool. But it's only the wisp of the apricot cast from another means into that end. It's really not a very useful apri…

Virgil and Kat, from Amsterdam

There's no urgency in Washington Square, in Tompkins Square, in Madison Square. Standing beneath the grey frown shaped rainbow pretending that we're getting wet. Manhattan smells like a lobby full of cheap glass and dried funk hiding behind a lemon. New York doesn't even care that I noticed. I check the phone for loose change. C'mon Kat, New York doesn't even care.
Squint eyed, wiping your glasses with the hem of your skirt. The square frames suit your sanguine face. I like their simple lines with that horse patterned blouse. The lobby looks like old should. It lingers like a dented chrome sconce. The revolving door rattles again, Please, please, please? Not here... We'll go up in the elevator. All the way to the top then, Ding...
I go down to the lobby. I call back from the desk. You're naked knackered, My eyes, my eyes... Of ...
Do you have a pen? Take down this number, two-one-two.
I hang up the phone and laugh sweet.
Later on Staten Island, an overturn…