During Vik Muniz’s Rouen Cathedral, a state of synesthesia took place, where [or when?], looking at the many hues of yellow — from canary to wheat to faded statuette, juxtaposed by every blue there is — I began to smell blueberry jam, lemon, and a pint of bitter ale.
Someone enters; another moves toward the exit, leaving a cloak of perfume hanging in the air. A certain “scent of the woods” made in labs for office workers. The mimesis of nature in the digital age will see no end.
The young-american-nude-as-sparkplug amazes, in that Picabia discovered a way to give a nod to Degas without elaborating the plug’s Aristotelian form: two spindly legs in pirouette, for him, us, seemingly for-ever.
Still not remembering why the Byzantine picture hanging above the kitchen table is there, I consider puncturing it. And yet, its mannerisms — “the psychological effect diverged from the structural logic” — puzzle and delight. Might be the wine.
In the memento mori, death is always just waking up, to the nature of time. Making it up as we go, arrival is often forgotten. While looking at the skull, the quill pen, the hourglass, and the globe — all that work! Although it’s the end, hell, we made it.
The mimetic sculpture is so much this other thing that it resists your take on it, as if it were something new. Limbo is one’s viewing state, not necessarily surprise. Absurd as it is, in the simple butter pat form, it’s somehow a recreation that’s harmoniously whole, miraculous.
Art history survey
Anachronism in symbolist art, modernity in art nouveau, historicism in the Arts & Crafts, political obstinacy today. “It’s his world against mine” to twist a phrase.