May 23, 2011. In death this little bird takes on a grace that maybe didn't exist in its short life. It's outstretched wing, fans into a cushion for its head, a graceful crown attesting to its holy place in our world. The tiny feet are poised as if to scamper away from the danger that it met in falling. The action of moving is still evident as it lays on the road to await what comes next, which to it is now inconsequential. I think that it still matters to us, but by now, I have also moved on from my consideration of its end.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
May 20, 2011. This figure has also reappeared, this time at 14th & 8th. He was tucked away, on a metal surface and almost unseen. A clown in uniform, his scalp brightly colored, maybe in a premonition of what is to come, of what might happen in war. He has a firm grasp on his weapon, but his feet hold the possibility that he could simply scamper away in a nonsensical dance, betraying the weapon, but holding true to the spirit of his uniform.
May 19, 2011. Central Park morning walk. This azalea has dropped its buds into the soft ground below so that it looks like each bud is sprouting from the ground, like some spore growth. The ground was soft, wet, and dark and the buds were shiny in the early morning light. The dispersal pattern is at once random and pleasing, making the dirt enticing, beckoning, but not entirely convincing since no one had laid down.
May 7, 2011. We've seen him before, over in Chelsea at the Highline. Here, the Prussian occupies the space in front of the shadow of the white figure behind him. The artist has pressed all three into a single space, improbable and impossible, but still, there it is. Done. He walks, colored in a uniform more brilliant than we might expect. And he is oblivious to what lurks behind. How often do we move along just like this, lost in our reveries, unknowing and so sure that one day will follow the next, until it doesn't. Or is it that he is here, today, and this is the day he has, and tomorrow may or may not come, but it doesn't matter, because he has made this day what it could be.
May 7, 2011. Why not? What cruel spirit would impose such an edict and rub out what expression? Or is it someone commenting on the absence of art on this surface, and inviting someone to add art. Ah, punctuation. It can add to the meaning of the words we use and completely change the meaning. Whose word to I take, or do I supply my own interpretation?
May 7, 2011. The mosaic tiles pressed into this barrier fence are a soft morning glow of yellow and orange on a back street in Dumbo. They rise from the traffic barrier which is assertive and dominant in those blood orange and white blocks. the diagonals rise over them, in contrast, not necessarily harmonious, but sure of their place. What being spent time to press these into the fence, one square at a time?
May 4, 2011. I anticipate this every year, when the cherry trees shed their blossoms and blanket the bridle trail around the reservoir. The wind blows the petals into drifts, catching them in the shallow gullies left after heavy spring rains. The pattern is like a river drifting out of a lake and running over the countryside, spreading its color along the way. And our feet softly pad over it, giants on the tiny flowers.