foundation 1 (morandi)
who will preserve space /
the fullness of emptiness –
the flame of the shell / a warning of roses
a kind of soupy
the intentional near unseen warp
to conserve the dust & then know how to use it
is this line solid / are we all
part of this ingenious self-portrait?
this still life that moves
with or without us
despite the movement of others
despite the movement around it
/ ? \ |}
regardless of the movement of others
despite the seeming freedom of but not from
placement – but what is fascism?
the ability to control this accumulated dust?
a portrait of a still-life framed by a fireplace
brick faced residing in a black
supported by a ledge of immediate undertones
though the urgency of these forms
never assaults our vision
subverts & subdues
what do painting & politics amount to?
real size ??? real color???
which to what to which or what
is the true transformation?
suspended above a glass-tabled floor
the frame @ times
a bourgeois addition
to the historical problems of crisis
are these compact(ed) objects:
anything? everything? nothing?
solid? liquid? ephemeral?
rich? poor? illusion?
human? sacred? fiction?
useful daily favorite daily
filled with emptiness
faded by loneliness?
learned & discarded behaviors?
studies of studies?
the instability of war?
3 sisters & a mother?
headache & arousal?
time is at rest
the clock with its back
toward the viewer
always refusing to reveal
she quotes the critics: it’s about
“a feeling of demonic vitality” as he
“attacks the objects in order to dissolve them”
tells us “morandi is just morandi”
& as we decompress
fade & melt with the paintings
dark shadows flow & fill the space
& as the tour reaches its climax
she gives the painter the last word >
“finally only a white bottle remains.”
foundation 2 (compact:)
closely & firmly packed / together / a small
cosmetic case usually containing face powder & a
mirror / to make by putting together
i want to tell the brown skinned man talking to himself
on the train that no matter how much he rub the “flesh”
tone “pow(d)er on his face & hands he will never
change his color. his varied hues blend like a morandi.
he talks & talks while nervously dabbing the
powder puff around in its octagonal case then massively
applies makeup to every inch of his face. lips, eyes.
give up, i want to tell him, you are crazy to think this
transformation will occur & besides you are
beautiful the way you are. he keeps dialoguing with
someone in his head who may or may not be responding.
like he was on a cell phone. he is an alpha male touched
with fire trying so very hard to extinguish his own
distinct, personal & brilliant glow. on a path that
can only take him further toward his successful ascent
into madness. he is surrounded by bags full of stuff. he
falls silent from time to time. looks franticly into the
compact (ed space) then dabs & dabs & dabs. rubs
& rubs & rubs. at times using only his fingers.
what does he see this altered self portrait? he repeats
what sounds like the number 7...in the mirror…the
angels…they like my face…like they made…they like my…so
much…they created…3…6…7…side ones…a monday…still gotta
be april… we cross the bridge. he’s lost in someone
else’s idea of beauty where local & express run on
the same track at the same speed forever. he rubs &
rubs. are we all part of this self-portrait that moves
with or without us? milk? facsimile? reflection?
fascism? crisis? bourgeois synthesis? freedom? anything?
everything? nothing? solid? liquid? ephemeral?
rich? poor? illusion? fiction? human? sacred?
dalachinsky nyc 2/19/21/23/24/16