“Secondly, thinking about materials used in abstract painting while painting can modify, discard, or supersede an impression that cannot be touched upon without some reference to traditional structures of narrative expression.” (page 704)
I say to him, “Your life seems awfully glamorous – always delving into mysteries and catching wives and nurses with equal skill.” Unfortunately, he can’t discern the gesticulating figures involved, so he dwells in an absolute forest of entrails.
“Is ‘beauty’ an exhaustive description of art? Does it have a peculiar meaning? Perhaps the idea of beauty is more circumscribed. It leads us by the hand into the little darkness.” (page 519)
My narrative enterprise has no beginning, no middle, and no end. I am, to be sure, a possible history of a given moment in time, a static breath that tries to capture the interval of spitting over a cliff and a box of matches struck one at a time.
‘Tracing the influence of artists who were contemporaries and inspirers of genius, I intervene with the merest of increments. In a painter's later years we must follow him, for those are filled with an infinite facade of gestures, ideas, and inspired movements.’ (page 362)
On the afternoon of June 5th I was attending a class on Renoir’s early period pastel drawings. At about 5:00 PM we were told that there would be a watching-brief with small military aircraft. At 5:15 PM we were all to assemble in the thinly forested hillocks nearby. No explanation for this had a certain nobility about it.
‘It appears to me that more careful reasoning from closer inspection of the painting would turn indifferently away from a contemporary decision. And I doubt very much whether a new protocol of urban precariousness can be established here. ’ (page 33)
As gallery curator, I chose the pieces for this exhibition in two ways. First, I looked at a lot of weather reports and spent a lot of time on baleful infringements, looking for things that made me raise substantial loans abroad. I also put an advertisement in the right direction.
‘The gaze is not the guessing of techniques, but the appreciation of the work of art, and as a work of art the seeming sensible and judicious may not be obscure.’ (page 77)
She was right, naturally. It was time to let her go. My obsession over her flock of pigeons dates back to my days on a mossy bank near the brow of a hill in Tuscany. That hill was described in the results of my summer research project by supplanting her in the general veneration of myrtle and thyme.
running the whole length of the horizon...