Sunday, January 18, 2015


Flat, frontal, the tree reduced to patterns
so that it blends in with its background 
and can barely be distinguished. Start out
with a motif and repeat and repeat it
until it is no longer itself but a sequence of
disturbances. Yet there is order in commonality,
in that even the most spectacular of compositions
can serve as a coaster—I have one under my glass 
of Fundador now. Which is to say that art 
is doubly useful.

“Let’s sit down, I hear melody,” says Piet to his dancing
partner. Improvisation, syncopation, rhythm, you 
begin with a yellow, a square, a demarcation, and
then let go, a membrane of color until you have
identified not so much yourself but those longing
around you and lead them not to where you are going
although you are not going anywhere, 
having already arrived—and it has taken you years—
not of traveling, but of standing still. 

Piet germinates
in his own habitat, a studio that is actually a
sentient Mondrian, with sliding panels of 
primary colors he can coordinate according
to his mood, abstracting himself as in he were 
an element in his own painting so at every moment he
is Mondrian in a Mondrian, a continual self-affirmation 
that all of us who can still crave crave for but relinquish 
so readily, hardly aware that one can always say yes.

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