15 September 2007
combustion
Studio time ended quickly and harshly, and way too soon. Work sucks, I’m burnt, and my salt-sculpture is only half-done. Now I’m worried about getting it ready in time for my show. The rest of the pieces are good, though I’m too busy to think about it for a coupla weeks at least.
Here’s the short version of the days:
I saw the Serra show, and didn’t much like it, despite all the Beautiful Math.
I taught a small group of lovely students, and was reminded just how much I love teaching, and just how exhausting it is.
The art-world opened again, and everyone trolled the streets and perved at each other. And yet the galleries were still too full to see any art. I don’t know what’s happening anywhere yet (but the outfits are good…)
Fashion Week hit, and I mostly missed that, too, though I squeezed in two shows by a friend and friends of friends.
I’m shooting photographs for other people, and juggling a mind full of sets and props and Hollywood Emergencies. I’m too out of it to be witty or even clear. Here’s a poem:
There sat down, once, a thing on Henry’s heart
so heavy, if he had a hundred years
& more, & weeping, sleepless, in all them time
Henry could not make good.
Starts again always in Henry’s ears
the little cough somewhere, an odour, a chime.
And there is another thing he has in mind
like a grave Sienese face a thousand years
would fail to blur the still profiled reproach of. Ghastly,
with open eyes, he attends, blind.
All the bells say: too late. This is not for tears;
thinking.
But never did Henry, as he thought he did,
end anyone and hacks her body up
and hide the pieces, where they may be found.
He knows: he went over everyone, & nobody’s missing.
Often he reckons, in the dawn, them up.
Nobody is ever missing.