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Artist
Inspired bySurrealism, Still-life sketch with apples and pears on a white canvas, paint drips, traces of a wiped-away paint layer, hand-assembled, coarse fabric texture, translucent layered elements, canvas texture, You keep me in a style of fashion magazines and clousane ballerina music boxs of Stravinsky. Rocks start singing low bass notes that tremble the earth, their lyrics carved in ancient striations. English Baroque (Palladian) – Subdued and monumental; a classical, civic-minded style merging Italian Renaissance ideals with grand scale (Christopher Wren, Blenheim Palace).no text.
Winter sent me a postcard in October.
It had no writing on it, only a pear sitting beside three apples and a ballerina holding up a flower much too large for the room. Behind her, civilization had already become architecture, and architecture had become memory. The moon was hanging over everything like an old silver coin somebody had forgotten to spend.
The fruit knew first.
Fruit always knows these things before we do. Apples begin thinking about cellars. Pears become philosophical. They sit quietly in bowls contemplating gravity and the terrible inconvenience of ripeness.
Outside, autumn was still pretending it had plenty of time.
The trees were dressed in their last expensive clothes. The sun arrived late and left early, like a government employee nearing retirement. Somewhere a furnace cleared its throat.
But inside the picture winter had already happened.
It was hiding in the marble buildings, sleeping beneath the dancer’s white dress, collecting itself in the black sky. Even the enormous red flower seemed suspicious. It had bloomed beyond reason, as if it understood this was its final opportunity and intended to use every inch of it.
That is how winter announces itself.
Not with snow.
Snow is merely the paperwork.
Winter actually begins when ordinary things acquire a slight distance from us. The chair across the room becomes somebody’s former chair. A pear becomes the memory of a pear. Buildings begin looking like ruins before anything has happened to them.
You wake one morning and notice the light has changed its mind.
There is suddenly more universe between you and everything else.
The ballerina keeps dancing anyway.
I like that about her.
She is standing at the edge of an enormous darkness, surrounded by aging fruit and civilizations that have already learned the lesson of stone, and still she raises one arm toward the impossible flower.
Perhaps that is all autumn ever was:
the world lifting one enormous flower
against the approaching cold,
knowing perfectly well
what comes next.
