David Wright: Two Poems | | Wunderkammer

As the semester allows, I intend to begin updates here again. In the meantime, here's some recent work in Wunderkammer: David Wright: Two Poems | | Wunderkammer

Late Picasso

In today's New York Times, an intriguing look at Picasso's end of life paintings.

Creative Non-Fiction

An example of weaving art history, personal narrative, travel writing, and meditative prose together comes in Julia Blackburn's Old Man Goya. An excerpt from the first chapter demonstrates how Blackburn works to weave together these several voices and genres. Her own history with the artist, her mother's illness, a journey to Spain, and Goya's unfolding biography (especially his deafness) become wed through close examinations of Goya's paintings. For good (I think) or for ill (some other readers suggest) this allows Blackburn to imaginatively enter Goya's world, to speculate on his visions of the landscapes she is now exploring (and to see them as so strongly influenced by her experience of Goya, that perhaps she cannot see them on her own). Here is Blackburn on watching a bullfight as Goya might have:

He looks up at the tiered rows of faces, rippling and swaying together. He sees that this crowd has the same questing, hungry energy as a crowd of pilgrims approaching a shrine, as soldiers going to battle, as men gathered together to witness an execution. He sees the fickleness of the crowd, calling for blood and revenge in one moment and begging for mercy and salvation the next.

Another example of ekphrastic fiction

Edward Hirsch's Transforming Vision (1994) collects prose and poetry responding to works in the Art Institute of Chicago. While of course heavy on the poetry, one of the excerpts from fiction includes this passage from Saul Bellow's Humboldt's Gift, in which Bellow describes his character, in part, through an encounter with a Monet Painting Sandivka, Norway:

He was waiting between the lions in front of the Institute, exactly as expected in the cloak and blue velvet suit and boots with canvas sides. The only change was in his hair which he was now wearing in the Directoire style, the points coming down over his forehead. Because of the cold his face was deep red. He had a long mulberry-colored mouth, and impressive stature, and warts, and the distorted nose and leopard eyes. Our meetings were always happy and we hugged each other. "Old boy, how are you? One of your good Chicago days. I've missed the cold air in California. Terrific! Isn't it. Well, we may as well start right with a few of those marvelous Monet's." We left attached case, umbrella, sturgeon, rolls, and marmalade in the checkroom. I paid two dollars for admission and we mounted to the Impressionist collection.

There was one Norwegian winter landscape by Monet that we always went to see straightaway: a house, a bridge, and the snow falling. Through the covering snow came the pink of the house, and the frost was delicious. The whole weight of snow, of winter, was lifted effortlessly by the astonishing strength of the light. Looking at this pure snowy dusky light, Thaxter clamped his pincenez on the powerful twisted bridge of his nose with a gleam of glass and silver and his color deepened. He knew what he was doing. With this painting his visit began on the right tone.

Willa Cather makes similar uses of art in her novels, a pattern detailed nicely here by Kathleen Nichols. One of my favorite bits from Cather comes, of course, in Song of the Lark, named after the iconic Art Institute owned painting by Jules Breton. Here is Thea's reverie about that work:



But in that same room there was a picture--oh, that was the thing she ran upstairs so fast to see! That was her picture. She imagined that nobody cared for it but herself, and that it waited for her. That was a picture indeed. She liked even the name of it, 'The Song of the Lark.' The flat country, the early morning light, the wet fields, the look in the girl's heavy face--well, they were all hers, anyhow, whatever was there. She told herself that that picture was 'right.' Just what she meant by this, it would take a clever person to explain. But to her the word covered the almost boundless satisfaction she felt when she looked at the picture.

A Music--Wendell Berry

I employ the blind mandolin player
in the the tunnel of the Mètro. I pay him
a coin as hard as his notes,
and maybe he has employed me, and pays me
with his playing to hear him play.

Maybe we're necessary to each other,
and this vacant place has need of us both
––it's vacant, I mean, of dwellers,
is populated by passages and absences.

By some fate or knack he has chosen
to place his music in this cavity
where there's nothing to look at
and blindness costs him nothing.
Nothing was here before he came.

His music goes out among the sounds
of footsteps passing. The tunnel is the resonance
and meaning of what he plays.
It's his music, not the place, I go by.

In this light which is just a fact, like darkness
or the edge or end of what you may be
going toward, he turns his cap up on his knees
and leaves it there to ask and wait, and holds up
his mandolin, the lantern of his world;

his fingers make their pattern on the wires.
This is not the pursuing of rhythm
of a blind cane pecking in the sun,
but is a singing in a dark place.

Image and Line

As you polish poems for me, I promised to link you to the primer on the poetic line that I often use. One on imagery in is the works, though I think many of you got the embodied, sensuous particular quite well last week, as well as the notion of thinking through the logic of the image. Still, I will post it later. This means you need not necessarily send your polished poems this evening. Instead, you might send them by Wed. night. See you at the Art Institute.

In my ideal world, the home of everyone who loves art would come equipped with a painting by Giorgio Morandi, as a gymnasium for daily exercise of the eye, mind, and soul. I want the ad account: “Stay fit the Morandi way!”

--from The New Yorker and Peter Schjeldahl's review of a Morandi exhibit at the Met.

I mentioned Morandi briefly last year when I wrote about ekphrasis in the novel Falling Man by Don DeLIllo.