Open and Revolving
I’m seeing a thumb, that’s right, a thumb — but it’s sitting propped up on a chair wearing Voltaire’s underwear, or Judge Hide-in-Trees great sovereign wrinkle of black and white dust wig.
Of all things, my own toe just snapped off.
Anyway, I have been asked to write a small something for what appears to be a grand occasion. It is the accession of Hannah Collins.
There are hiding places, memories, and vision extracted with pink tweezers from the wreck of everyday, — never noticed that one until now, Life. Lying on that dust into placid opaque void of jaws and broken bones, maybe just egg whites, maybe glass beach balls. How the hell should I know? In any case, I think St. Francis was responsible for all those crumbling receptacles, crusting up and becoming sea shells. What a soul, I’m down there in that dirty hole digging up into the light. Pebbles and sand seem to have been arranged to let me crawl up through the cracks and crevasses. I’m out of breath now, and need to have more oxygen. Thank you for the magnificent view when I finally got out. Looks like the galaxies sitting there in two dimensional tranquility.
I’m a mean dirty old man and I need a glimpse into outer space in order be nice again.
What does the target mean anyway? I’ve been one all my life.
When old ancient Stieglitz was wiping the mist off his monocle those peaches became humanly possible and the big chief left his arrows at the coat-check.
Didn’t Hendrix just come up out of nowhere too —
He’s so great,
The Zeus of Electricity, and … WOW …
George Condo, 1992