Superstar.
And now Bataille's Guilty, surprisingly flat in English as if
the lungs paused to contemplate . . . (C. groans in sleep) were only for
what heard lectures on Hegel in Paris, tempted to talk of them after, or
seeing some Napoleonic spray of horses at the onset of a bridge, lit at
night or in day's powdery gray-brown-blue. I'd give anything,
you say. The statue of Voltaire is thin, drip cups for coffee likewise
in aluminum, phenomenon of French cheap cookware. The signs for
sparkplugs, beverages are everywhere, the coaster post-Revolution.
Mao by Warhol is himself, yellow-green, a presiding presence, the leader (like Churchill) inserting himself and his habits (the jacket, silver cigar stand) into what would still be art as if Hobbes interviewed by Cavett. Chris shows us a photo of Orson Welles impossibly large in broadcloth, having made himself bulky
like Coleridge to be noticed (the hungry cat at one's feet, technique of being in
the way). No then, the sketches are pretty (of soup) but not above what would be art if singleminded perfection, Oldenburg monuments, sculpture's
muniment room. The outcome of a religious notion that everyone is significant can be this thing deliberately engineered, the tact of it. You are what's said of you for a few minutes. Give us time to organize. People like having to come up to things, like geese. My name could have
been Warhol. Amuse the sitter with his or her likeness, like Bacon's multiple studies of favored sitters' faces. You can paint the plastic cannister a roll
of 35mm film comes in--can paint the roll--as any rectangle surrounded by small squares and be pleased by a docility of response.
Stevens does this imagining an indigent in the park by an equestrian general's
statue as if the woman's banal poverty puts in question even a theatricality of
heroism, the heroics, plural. So this is a kind of Room Service of images, the
tray with doughnut hopelessly far from coffee, one of Marx its precedent in
power, making you care like truckers wanting women drugged in their cubbies. They
are darkeyed, contain a wonder of buttock. Pascin could draw them, in thinnest paint
and pencil as if caste were visible, a one-wayness miles from Lautrec's brothels.
Was sexuality or licentiousness part of the programme, as when one went to hear
Loftus sing and play at Gatti's, pencil unidle? You slide along eggs in an egg crate hoping the light will make a mistake. All these excursions, insertions
of oneself into carnival, the lives of provincial people, nonentities, shows up
in the black and white photos as a shocking and casual beauty, banal
only because unable to walk out of the familiar, their own cognized recognitions,
so we become the exotic dancer's parakeet, sailor dancing, anything on leave in
a uniform (Olson's accent in a smoke-filled kitchen, saying "Gera-a-ah-hhd") and Viva knew the paper towel the tenor for inimitable commodity.
Mao by Warhol is himself, yellow-green, a presiding presence, the leader (like Churchill) inserting himself and his habits (the jacket, silver cigar stand) into what would still be art as if Hobbes interviewed by Cavett. Chris shows us a photo of Orson Welles impossibly large in broadcloth, having made himself bulky
like Coleridge to be noticed (the hungry cat at one's feet, technique of being in
the way). No then, the sketches are pretty (of soup) but not above what would be art if singleminded perfection, Oldenburg monuments, sculpture's
muniment room. The outcome of a religious notion that everyone is significant can be this thing deliberately engineered, the tact of it. You are what's said of you for a few minutes. Give us time to organize. People like having to come up to things, like geese. My name could have
been Warhol. Amuse the sitter with his or her likeness, like Bacon's multiple studies of favored sitters' faces. You can paint the plastic cannister a roll
of 35mm film comes in--can paint the roll--as any rectangle surrounded by small squares and be pleased by a docility of response.
Stevens does this imagining an indigent in the park by an equestrian general's
statue as if the woman's banal poverty puts in question even a theatricality of
heroism, the heroics, plural. So this is a kind of Room Service of images, the
tray with doughnut hopelessly far from coffee, one of Marx its precedent in
power, making you care like truckers wanting women drugged in their cubbies. They
are darkeyed, contain a wonder of buttock. Pascin could draw them, in thinnest paint
and pencil as if caste were visible, a one-wayness miles from Lautrec's brothels.
Was sexuality or licentiousness part of the programme, as when one went to hear
Loftus sing and play at Gatti's, pencil unidle? You slide along eggs in an egg crate hoping the light will make a mistake. All these excursions, insertions
of oneself into carnival, the lives of provincial people, nonentities, shows up
in the black and white photos as a shocking and casual beauty, banal
only because unable to walk out of the familiar, their own cognized recognitions,
so we become the exotic dancer's parakeet, sailor dancing, anything on leave in
a uniform (Olson's accent in a smoke-filled kitchen, saying "Gera-a-ah-hhd") and Viva knew the paper towel the tenor for inimitable commodity.
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Author: | Burns, Gerald |
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Publication: | The American Poetry Review |
Date: | Sep 1, 1993 |
Words: | 485 |
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