Pollock & Nougats

 

 

The memories I have of the Anderson Collection span nearly a decade and are many.  

As I wove through the galleries again this past November, the poignancy of a life dedicated to art-making reverberated from wall to wall--filling internal caverns with what only could be described as understanding and absolution.  I had been wracked with guilt for a long period, ignoring the pleas of my once feverish discipline to push ahead and continue with the work I was set to do.  Questions lingered: to where had my expression disappeared?  From what source had the overwhelming air of stagnancy come?  

While wrestling with these thoughts, I pressed upon myself to recognize life in its unadulterated form once more: the abstract, yet beautiful world of two- and three-dimensional bodies occupied by intention and meaning.  Revisiting works from Pollock, de Kooning, Diebenkorn, Jay Defeo, Wayne Thiebaud and Nathan Oliveira (among others) provided my noisy mind with a quiet parallel.  That afternoon, I ended up unpacking the past--one painting at a time, from one to another.  

-OH

See Cy, Part II

Museum Brandhorst - München, Germany (October 2019)

At every corner, at every turn, there he lived in all his glorious mark-making.

And at every corner, at every turn, there I had the pleasure of experiencing the pure magic of those very marks.

↟ ↟

When in München . . . See Cy.

Museum Brandhorst - München, Germany (October 2019)

By far, one of the most serendipitous events in my life.  

Traveling across the globe, München was probably my least anticipated spot.  Simply put, I was more excited to visit the Abbey Library in St. Gallen, Hallstatt in Austria, the Dolomites in Northern Italy, and the whole of Switzerland.  

During my first night in Europe, on a whim, I decided to Google contemporary museums in München.  I was not expecting to come across anything of significant personal interest, but I was every bit wrong.  I nearly toppled over when Museum Brandhorst appeared in the search results--boasting an inventory of over 170 Cy Twombly pieces.  I could not believe my good fortune.  I had struck gold.

The night before we were to make the trek to the art district, Kunstareal, my very real allergy to tobacco smoke (so many smokers in Europe) peaked.  Sickness slapped me like a slab of impasto paint.

Yet, for the few hours the following morning, when we were among his work, life felt extraordinarily surreal.  A dream state.  The fact I was there seemed eons ahead of my humble existence.  Maybe it was delirium settling into my feverish head, but I was convinced (and still am) that this was the reason our itinerary included München.

It seems serendipity has a way of bringing Cy and me together time and time again.

↟ ↟

I Walk Scribble the Line

What if we were renegade lines without end

wandering across the planes of existence 
vying for a genuine touch, one palpable connection among
scores of uniformed lines

And what if we were marks made to illustrate brevity
restricted to a finite period and space

rendering that which is temporary, ephemeral to
hunters of meaning 

We are lines, we are marks, we are scribbles that vary in
all the ways possible.  

 ---

Find me where you know me to be.
-OH