Remember the Beginnings

© copyright 1996

Remember back to

The rich, lush impasto of paint

The creamy chalks,

The pungent aroma of the studio

The clear, white light,

the feel of a brush in my hand.

Remember, arts writer, when the fools get to you;

when the trivia and politics and nonsense takes over

and you forget the colors --

and talk bullshit about this one and that one --

You've lost it.

You are now an art gossiper.

You are mired down in their artsy muck.

Much ado about meaningless beings,

and shows that reek of ego,

jobs that tell of favors,

you've become busy with words of hate and derision

you've forgotten the original meaning.

Have you read this, seen that, gone there?

Did you hear that ----

No. I was busy loving and trying to understand

busy trying to learn and grow and see.

busy writing about my life-long love, my love for art:

all over the walls of the town.

Do you read what I write?

No, they answer, with voices reeking of derision,

We never bother with local papers.

I see,

You only get the Sunday Times?

I'm not in there - yet.

Does anyone read my words?

Is anyone out there?

I can't hear you.

Writer: Don't waste your energy explaining,

getting caught up in the scene,

Think of the love that began when you opened your eyes,

blinded by light and form,

mesmerized by image and line.

Think back, remember:

the lines which ran forth from your hands,

those waxy, hard Crayolas,

and when I run out of paper,

I draw on the wall, behind the piano,

pencils with points so sharp

and crisp

and sometimes there's paper,

or I use the bags from the store,

it's war time, remember?

Paint, pens, markers of magic;

let me draw

even on my fingertips,

the colors which have sound

and love

and life.

In that house of musty sadness.

and neglect,

and rage,

the books become my friends,

images, pictures, words my only companions.

But Papa does take me to the museum,

Where I learn that Picasso is expansive, Braque self-contained,

Van Eyk's light fills the canvas,

and if there is a God,

She is here, in Kandinsky's whirling forms.

The lines which ran forth from my hands,

energies with lives of their own,

waving, bending,

while Marcel Duchamp's words rang in my head,

Is Art Dada? Is Dada Art?

Is Art Dead?

I am too sensitive

My soul holds the art of the ages,

sighing like sirens of old with their enchanted song,

the weight on my soul is too dear,

Scheherezade, Marat Sade,

I pay a perilous price

for the artist's eye.

Run, Katya, go to the bars of Twelfth Street,

Wear black, sleep with an artist,

Smoke some weed, drink some espresso,

The sixties say you'd better marry

or get thee to a nunnery.

Use your art to teach kindergarten,

go to the suburbs and curate art shows,

forget the light

give it up.

You were born five, ten years too early.

And the wrong sex as well.

The revolution will begin when you've stopped.

Live that dull life,

raise a few sweet children,

give scintillating suburban dinners.

Forget the light,

You have no audience

they're all watching TV

and shopping in the A&P.

And besides, they think you're peculiar.

You are peculiar.

But your art is pretty,

your face is pretty,

your hair is so pretty,

So you'll never create good art.

Have another child or two, instead.

Then, Papa comes to watch the kids

and I'm back at school,

in a time where it is still an outrage.

she's an unfit mother, they say,

those poor children,

Clean your house, lady,

join the P.T.A.

Try tennis if you're bored.

Sitting in the classroom that first autumn afternoon

learning the symbols of Flemish art,

Walking back in time.

The visions dance before my eyes:

Joseph builds a better mousetrap,

Mary the vessel so holy and pure,

The pomegranate,the lily, the lamb.

I'm drawn through the centuries.

pulled, transformed, transmuted,

into a world serene and blessed

Better than the one out here.

I write silent words,

written on paper and shoved in the drawer,

I create collages and prints and paintings,

filled with silent fury,

Is Art Dada, Is Dada Art?

Is Art Dead?

Then comes graduation with a hard-won 4.00 cum

and highest honors and the Rittmaster Award.

I pay a price for those things too.

When I'm divorced, and need the bucks,

nobody cares,

about the academics,

or the honors,

or the creative bent;

They ask if I can type,

or file or answer phones,

my hate grows even stronger.

What about the galleries, I ask,

where I installed shows and wrote brochures,

What about my papers,

I wrote entire catalogues.

I was Professor Meyer Shapiro's protege.

Doesn't that matter?

No matter,

be a temp, they say,

you think you're better because of a few degrees?

A few degrees about nothing,

A few meaningless papers on the wall,

which say that you know about Dada.

Is Art Dada, Is Dada Art?

Is Art Dead?

Does anyone understand my need for light?

Is the Light Dead?

Am I one of the walking dead?

Did I die in that house near the shore?

Did I burn out my brains in Sausalito?

Did the cells all go into wifely duties and bearing babes?

Is Art Dada, Is Dada Art?

Is Art Dead?

The house without light.

contained a child who needed it.

that child,

much older, still sad, still peculiar,

still needs that light.

She still writes on the wall behind the piano,

Only now they call it the Advocate,

or the Westport News, or Newsleaf, or IBM's Quarterly

does it matter?

Is Art Dada, Is Dada Art?

Is Art Dead?