tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42925842508425599482024-03-13T15:21:30.450-04:00Wolff BrainAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03162474204678155033noreply@blogger.comBlogger538125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4292584250842559948.post-71827234136453904192017-01-18T16:22:00.002-05:002017-01-18T16:22:19.739-05:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHO9STI9SJSgl8P8uIk37Gvrq7zG95oOW7z5cIy82lw5GQ6fj0ih4DKZXP1wOzlfHw65JtPCK62H5xGFF0d5HC3JNqrZDAhc_puxwtG-7UE6Sg6fLJmBafHHSVu2XNwBmsd2rjDTplx2w/s1600/IMG_5945.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHO9STI9SJSgl8P8uIk37Gvrq7zG95oOW7z5cIy82lw5GQ6fj0ih4DKZXP1wOzlfHw65JtPCK62H5xGFF0d5HC3JNqrZDAhc_puxwtG-7UE6Sg6fLJmBafHHSVu2XNwBmsd2rjDTplx2w/s320/IMG_5945.jpg" width="320" /></a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03162474204678155033noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4292584250842559948.post-12214048762463396492017-01-18T16:14:00.001-05:002017-01-18T16:16:20.355-05:00Wolffland<br />
Short film about my paintings, with appearances by Samuel R Delany, Annie Potts, myself in the circus, my son and Feather:<br />
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<a data-saferedirecturl="https://www.google.com/url?hl=en&q=https://vimeo.com/148406219&source=gmail&ust=1484859480055000&usg=AFQjCNHJgNM_WOcTXkuNuvOZoQ-m9wZrxg" href="https://vimeo.com/148406219" style="background-color: white; color: #1155cc; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;" target="_blank">https://vimeo.com/148406219</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03162474204678155033noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4292584250842559948.post-82089285334420181282017-01-12T19:07:00.001-05:002017-01-12T19:07:50.235-05:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
The beginnings of a new painting.......</div>
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03162474204678155033noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4292584250842559948.post-1899011701418460222017-01-11T18:03:00.001-05:002017-01-11T18:15:04.117-05:00<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> A New Year's present from Chip:</o:p></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
NOTES ON<br />
THE CITY OF GREEN FIRE<br />
by Samuel R. Delany<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Mia Wolff painted her oil on linen triptych <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The City of Green Fire</i> between 1997 and
1998, at her New Paltz, New York, studio, where I first saw them in late Spring
or Summer shortly after their completion. It is probably when I saw them again on
Church Street in New York City that I first wanted to write about them. (Comic
artist Eddie Campbell was also struck enough with them to quote them in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Birth Caul</i> that he drew for Alan
Moore.).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And when she asked me to comment about
her painting in the documentary, </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Wolffland</span></i><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> (Laura Checkoway, 2015),</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"> the triptych always impelled my
words, even when I was talking about other Wolff works.<br />
<br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The City of Green Fire </i>is not a Comedy,
divine and Dantesque, or human with some Balzacian bevy of social types. <br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It may be religious, however: the
figure off-center in the middle panel is part animal and part human. The fish
and flowers that populate the whole of it it do not hit me as Christian.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The city itself seems both older and newer then any real ones—that
aspect suggests something comic (with a small c), and reminds me more than
anything else of Rem Koolhaas’s vision of Coney Island in his architectural
meditation, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Delirious New York</i>
(1978), the experimental try-out area for the shapes then to be exported to
Manhattan to create the actual city on its historical base, some time later.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
The artist writes that it came to her in a dream in which she was barefoot,
coupled with some photographic sources of the old castle of Prague and a woman—the
Patron Saint of Roses—changing roses into fish; the chandelier hung in her New
Paltz studio at the time she painted it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
Lights are reflected on its windows. Signs are legible on its walls (but not in
English). It’s a city of silhouettes, cut out and made visible by light behind
them, here and there thrown into relief with decorations and gleams from a more
complex pallet in its flooded street.<br />
<br />
Serious question: Does the liquid over in the city extinguish the fire--or fuel
it? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
I.<br />
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The panel on the left (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Sea Horse</i>)
appears to be an interior, almost black. Through a window, two portals left and
right, and what appears to be a doorway at the end of a cobblestone hallway, a
green fire burns. </span></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The middle panel (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Sphinx</i>) shows the outside of the
city, the sky above it, filled with the same yellow-green. The viewer looks
down an alley by a sphinx to the left, spurting liquid from her breasts, to spill
over a fountain’s edge onto the street. Even so, the liquid seems to flow along
the ground from the first painting around and into the second. </span><br />
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The third panel (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Patron Saint of Roses</i>) shows the city
roofs. Then, through a brick arch we see roses, green water, and a female nude
(a self-portrait of the artist at the time of the painting); Green light still fills
the painting’s background, but the roses, the fish, the figures here are
illuminated by a far more varied and—dare I say—realistic palette than the rest
of the work (that is, panels one and two), which of course draws the eye across
all three.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
<br />
<br /><br />
II.<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">In the first of the three paintings, in the foreground we can
make out a seahorse—a creature part of the architecture. At the doorway in the
back, a wraithlike shadow stands, with fronds and tendrils.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Possibly it’s a female figure entering the
scene. As easily, though, it could be leaving. The figure could be a tree, it
could be a silhouetted break between the flames burning at either edge of the
door. <br />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">III.<br />
<br />
In fact, the material actuality of the female figure in the panel on the right
highlights a set of questions and judgments about the figures in the panel on
the left.<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is the figure at the end of the
hallway a positive or a negative space? (No question of that sort needs be
asked about the nude with her raised hands.) Is it male or female? If it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i> a positive form, is it entering or
leaving? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The larger and closer images of
sea horses and fish are specifically architectural; they are images of things
painted or carved on the walls as opposed to the realer and realer creatures as
we see as we move to the right through the three paintings, the more and more
unquestionably living creatures more and more convincingly pictured as we
move from the left. <br />
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">IV.<br />
<br />
“The reproach of escapism is seldom aimed at a painter; we do not hold it
against Cezanne that he was living hidden away at Etaque during the war of
1870. And we recall with respect his “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">C’est
effrayant, la vie,</i>” (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It’s
astonishing, life</i>) even when the lowliest student, ever since Nietzsche,
would reject philosophy if it did not teach him how to live fully (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">a etre de grand vivants</i>).<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“It’s as if in the painter’s
calling there were some urgency above all other claims on him. Strong or frail
in life, he is incontestably sovereign in his own rumination of the world.”<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>--Guy Davenport (1989)<br />
<br />
V.<br />
<br />
Balthus’s (1908-2001) <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Passage du Commerce
Saint-Andre</i> (1952-’54) sets up a distinct dialogue with the middle panel of
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The City of Green Fire</i>. The alley we
look down in both paintings is rich with the theme of their artists, Balthus
and Wolff. If Balthus theme is “the care a culture has for its young,”
(Davenport, 50); that is, how the society treats its children, specifically its
adolescent girls, with an attention that lapses over into the pornographic,
even. Wolff’s concern in a city that recalls Balthus to me, is stated in the
concluding panel: how its women treat its fish, its flowers—or, if I can make
such a leap, it’s ecology.<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For both painters, in both
paintings, these themes are suggested as a more or less troubling resonance
with sexuality, decentered as much as stated.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
VI.<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">In classical paintings the streets are often the setting for
Comedy. This is what gives meaning to the fact that in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The City of Green Fire</i> the paintings re relatively free of direct social
life. In the first panel, we can’t tell if the figure is a single person in
front of the flames or a break in the flames themselves. In the last, it’s a
nude woman, and both flank an absence—an empty street, with only a statue
spurting liquid (water? milk . . .? . . . oil?) from its breasts—in the second,
as if to emphasize the lack of living figures. <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
VII.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
The “lost paradise” (of innocence . . . ? Of license . . . ?) that Camus wrote
about in Balthus may explain Wolff’s unpopulated streets in this major work. <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
VIII.<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Writing in 1980 in an introduction to the republication of
her earliest story “Acrobats in a Park,” (written in or about 1935) Eudora
Welty wrote that Walls were like families. (“In performance, their act had been
the feat of erecting a structure of their bodies that held together like a
wall. . . . from points of view within and without, I’ve been writing about
this Wall ever since and what happens to it . . .”) <br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When you look at the brick and
stone and dead black walls of all three panels in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The City of Green Fire</i>, it’s interesting to remember that Mia Wolff
after starting as a visual artist, became an acrobat and a catcher in a trapeze
act—with a partner. She has described the relationship to me as one as close as
a family, and that ceased after an accident when her partner fell because of a
piece of faulty equipment, after which she was not comfortable going up to
perform with anyone else (Footage of her remains from these days, in the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wolffland</i> documentary), <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>though she has taught trapeze work, even as
she has become a more and more extraordinary painter. (See her own children’s
book, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Catcher</i> [1994]) <br />
<br />
<br />
IX.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
Contemporary art criticism is a criticism of photographs and art books. Even if
we spend time with the actual painting in the museum, or on the studio wall, photographic
prints or reproductions are likely to play their parts. In my case that’s a CD
reproducing all three paintings, separately and another of them side by side,
that I can put on my computer to re-view what I have seen so frequently before.<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I look at an image presumably shared by the
artist who wanted to communicate it. At the same time, though, I am interacting
with an image that came into being though the interaction of what was in the
artist’s mind with its own realization on the canvas an image that grew in a
certain way and submitted itself to certain criteria or just changed so that with
her brush and pigments the artist both made it, then made it look better: <br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Painting, and the painting’s final
look of necessity have a self critical relation with the initial conception if
the painting is to encompass any complexity.<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of that as a beholder, once
the painting is through, I have some access to, perhaps in the brush work, in a
comment the artist might have made to me, some of which stays and most of which
goes (“I wanted to make this seem darker, and so I . . . “, the correction of
an imbalance that did not even exist before the painting reached a certain
stage), and none of is present in the static image of the “completed,” which
joins the painting even as it creates itself.<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
X.<br />
<br />
On her liquid filled pedestal running with water or milk, the winged sphinx
rearing to the left of the central panel spurts multiple sprays from her
breasts in my memory (and in the tiny photograph on the CD case) and appears to
be blind. I see her as a classical cherub, an angel whose ancient form was a
centaur with a lion’s body and the torso of a human, another image of the
artist herself, the guardian of the work as well as the city, and at the same
time the rector of all the chaos that the darkness of the painting wrestles
with. <br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The reflections of the city here
and there in the water at various <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>distances comprise the streets from the interplay
of dark and light, of colors and cutout figures that is what painting is. <br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the same panel, a stack of
Chinese characters beside another that are clearly not Chinese at all, suggests
a private language for which the artist may or may not have a meaning in mind;
in any case they are essentially the same color as the relatively “realistic”
fish swimming through the air and observing or even reading them, though each
rests in different colored hazes of incident light. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of the
fish even moves above its own shadow, which give an authority to the space
between them. The highlights on the roof ornaments of the city are another way
for the artist to speak directly to us of space, of illumination, of mind
itself. <br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can we ask what layer of the
painting we are looking at?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When we
choose to look at any few inches of the surface, are we looking at an early
painted layer or a last? Did it contribute to the organization of the rest of
the painting or did the rest of the painting eventually produce it at its
climax?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Is it an
impetus for the work, or a final layer that reveals a meaning not there at the
start?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And can it
matter to the viewer that it may be the opposite of the artist’s process of
creating the image in pigment laid on a ground we do not even see? <br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The illusion is that we are
observing a static picture, but of course we are not. We are looking at an
image put together over time—weeks, even months.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Possibly years. <br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Which again bring us back to the
fact that there are three paintings, which we look at all at once—and which
were done presumably one after another . . .?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>To what extend were they separate?<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did the artist move back and
forth between them? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(She tells me
she did.)<br />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
XII.<br />
<br />
The title of the whole work suggests a creative/destructive eruption which must
consume and support the artist through the transition of the work’s conception
to its completion.<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Green fire . . .<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A city of it. Is the city only named by it?
Is it created from it? Is the fire destroying it? <br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I write, I can remember two
years of my life given over to a trilogy of novels, the difficulties of
completing the second book of which simply scared me off conceiving of any work
in that form again—even as the toboggan of pleasure that was the writing of the
third and final book almost (but never wholly) made up for it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For better or worse,
the memory of my own mental movement over those two years becomes a part of my
experience looking at that these three Wolff paintings together. <br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Part of me wants to know if I can
find any answers to the lingering despair that was my own experience of the
second panel of my own three-volume work in the second painting of Wolff’s.<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Imagination being what it is, I
would have no problem with Wolff’s three painting, with their questions and
visual resolutions as images on the covers of my own volumes from twenty or
thirty years before Wolff’s were painted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>As easily I could see her response as one of horror at the thought, as
though green fire at its most destructive was consuming the meaning of her
canvasses.<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
XIII.<br />
<br />
The image of the woman making a fish from a rose as it is read to sit at the
end of Wolff’s narrative arrives with an immense sense of narrative relief. <br />
If we decide to read the work right to left, so that she is placed at the point
of origin, it is equally satisfactory. The way she stands out from the background,
the way the fire in this panel seems to be closer to resolution or taming, is
simply reassuring to anyone who experiences the disruption of the green
illumination perfusing the work.<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Read in the traditional direction,
the three paintings foreground “shadow,” “myth,” and “body” respectively. <br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Body is also in the first,
though it’s entailed in the represented architecture. <br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shadow is there in the third,
in the backgrounds, enfolded in the petals of the roses, wedged in the grout
between the bricks. <br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
XIV.<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">In the first painting, as I return to it on my computer
screen, I am reminded (or am I seeing it consciously for the first time?) that
there is a great deal of blue in the walls of the building I assume we are
within. The liquid running in over the cobbles is as likely to be tar or crude
oil<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>as water. (That, I know I have
noticed before.) And the decorative fish swimming down the wall on the upper
right gives a sense as “realistic” as any of the goldfish swimming through the
air in the other paintings.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
XV.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Looking again at the middle picture, the very act of writing
about it makes it seem much lighter and livelier than my own meditation
transformed it into: the city itself is an intricate city, a city in
silhouette, not a heavy city at all, which is how my own ruminations on it
pushed it in my imagination.<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Looking at it again I feel both
disoriented and relieved to have it back.<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The particular myth of the sphinx
as Mesopotamian angel/monster is, at least in my recent meditations on it, a
highly creative image, and one that comes with renewal and—in Wolff’s central
panel—is painted with it. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>XVI.<br />
<br />
In the third picture, the chandelier, the bridge shape across the top, the red
roof—all these are details that vanished during my reading in note III.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The rose in the woman’s hands is being
transformed into a fish, from the tale forward. The expression on her face as
she performs this change in mid air is . . . in a word, priceless.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
As familiar as I am with these pictures, writing as I look at one of them
changes it even now so that every new look is a healing of the violence of
interpretation. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">XVII.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">It is—I almost want to say, “of course”—precisely when I free
myself of my own story of the artist painting these pictures that they speak
most directly to my own needs as an eye in time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For whatever reasons and by whatever process,
it is an image created. If I loose the why and how (in which only my own
uncertainties of the moment can be reflected) and try to fix on the what, the
picture is (or the pictures are) more numinous, richer, and more a sat of
paintings in which I can grapple with what kept drawing me to them in the first
place:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
XVIII.<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">The green fire is bright. All the figures walk on the surface
of the liquid that grounds them. The sphinx in the central panel has no hands,
but paws. The liquid arching and falling from her breasts foams and bubbles in
the fountain’s pool before her hind paws. She is green, but parts of her
body—her own paws, the edges of her wings—catch all sorts of other colored
light from the painting, holding it together. <br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The intelligence and energy in the
paintings details are what, at this viewing, I am responding to the most. And
the light.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
XIX<br />
<br />
Historically, art seems to move from picturing what we know is there (what we
think of as primitive art) and moving on to what it looks like. And somewhere
painters such as Wolff come in to paint what is not there and what it might
look like anyway. The result is cities or landscapes recognizable as such, but
impossible to locate in the world.<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is certainly the city of
Green Fire, as it is in her most recent series of landscapes. <br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Under such a regime the works become
combinatory, immediately seem to be in the midst of conversations with other
works as soon as you blink at them, infinitely legible. <br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thus the way morning or evening
comes through my windows in the apartment in Philadelphia where I currently
live is the way the light of the Green Fire comes through the windows of the
city that bears its name. It’s an interesting experience how, over the years <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>that it has been talking to me, that I have
become so at home in it.<br />
<br />
XX.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
.<br />
Clearly physical and conceptual space fall between each of the<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>paintings. Even as there is clear passage
between paintings one and two, two and three, there is resistance as well.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is what
gives the city its sense of size..<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The interior molding does not
get from painting one to painting two. The wings of the sphinx do not make it
from painting two to painting one.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The red
illumination in the brick archway of painting two is not continued in the brick
arch of painting three. Neither is the sidewalk.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">And of course the massive symmetry of painting three is not
continued in painting two.<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">XXI.<br />
<br />
Buildings in the city suggest apartments and restaurants, and even possibly
places of entertainment, but not libraries or places of business per se. <br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Clearly, however, there are
catacombs, which at least in the neighborhood we are in have access to the
surface. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And at least one
thing the Green Fire has displaced is weather itself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The antennae pretty clearly
suggest broadcasting. But I doubt the city is as massively on line as we are in
the present, since—after all—it is a work of the last decade of the 20<sup>th</sup>
century, not the 21st.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
XXII<br />
<br />
The tiles and cobbles of the first painting suggest to me sunset, locality,
edifices that are utilized largely by the public. Others have recently passed
by. Others will soon arrive.<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
XXIII<br />
<br />
In the second painting there are two lighted doorways open and exiting onto the
street. And there is a larger one that visually balances the sphinx on the
other side of the walkway. Out of its half visible arch, one of the fish in the
series swims—not in the water, but through the air.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I find this very hopeful.<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, I find this the most
optimistic node in entire sequence. <br />
<br />
<br />
XXIV<br />
<br />
A curtain of green fire hangs across in one of the doorways, reflected on the
water. I am intrigued by the little blue window in the city’s upper copula.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In this panel there
are suggestions both of excess and resolution.<br />
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><br />
XXV<br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Guy
Davenport translated the Italian version of an ancient Egyptian maxim (“Il
paradiso per un uomo e la sua buona natura”), "A man's paradise is his
good nature." </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">That's good to remember because often
neither men nor women have any other.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 150%;">Be kind--to people and animals and
strangers---because that is how bits of paradise can be spread. Even when you
live with some one else who is uncomfortable with all three.<br />
There is room for this insight in the burning city too. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03162474204678155033noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4292584250842559948.post-91903621477927292152014-10-20T09:35:00.002-04:002014-10-20T09:35:39.504-04:00Wolff in Brooklyn
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When I was in art school I wrote poems about autumn and my
feet. </div>
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Its autumn now and I’m living in the same exact
neighborhood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I walk the sidewalks
and absorb the nameless colors of the pavement stones, the cement, the bark of
trees and the drift of fallen leaves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There are hills that lend geographical meaning to my walks, even if
there seems to be a destination and a prize (a ladder, a lunch, a new
sketchbook), the actual volume of the land has far more weight than any
excursion’s impulse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The untethered
quality of my body is exaggerated because my equilibrium is broken.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I move through the streets as though
hydroplaning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Exactness doesn’t seem
desperately precious until it departs. </div>
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So much is possible and unwritten that I lean into the
ghosts that occasionally accompany me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They, of course, can only offer furry warmth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is not nothing, but it isn’t related to the manipulation
of the days. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is a back blow
glow of love.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is definitely
something because it is what I have lost in the real time of this
dimension.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I cannot access it
in a retinal, tactile way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
cannot hear their voices.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is
the autumn of intuition; it is the autumn of the cracked heart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Radar is off, sonar is down and the
stride of my feet is unpredictable.</div>
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When I wrote of my feet I was interested in what a month of
walking barefoot in Brooklyn had done to my souls and heels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ridiculous or not I remember it with
nostalgia for the strange, dreamy focus of an 18 year old trying to be an
artist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The searing energy of that
time propelled me buoyantly and haphazardly forward.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My lack of finesse and discernment was melded with a
hypnotic ability to focus visually, and to work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I made lots of bad paintings, lots of silly drawings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But there were some gems that fell,
fairytale-like from my frog-spewing hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was gloriously unedited and overseen only by the impulse to move my
hand across a piece of paper or canvas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I drew all the time and everywhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I drew on the subway; I drew the ballet classes at Julliard
when the Royal Ballet from London was in town, always hoping that Nureyev would
show up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I drew in Eric’s, the
local bar---you could drink at 18 then.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I drew sitting in the hallway in front of my dorm room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I painted everything that seemed paint
worthy, which in my case was figurative, dream imagery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only later did I try to be more of an
abstract, even minimalist artist.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>An interesting phase in which I painted and drew fields of color with
odd, X-marks-the-treasure-spot scribbles, occasionally words.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That didn’t last and I returned to the
creation of spaces and unfinished narratives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I relinquished monochromatic and grey tones for the
world of intense color.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My crazy,
shoeless self was back.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so, here again on the same sidewalks, although the
neighborhood is vastly changed, there is still a lingering sense of those
cracked feet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can I find that
ruthless propulsion into image making without the barefoot month?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is perhaps a question for my
ghosts.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03162474204678155033noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4292584250842559948.post-35061037486403739082014-04-02T10:28:00.000-04:002014-04-02T10:32:19.222-04:00in the wake of March<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqUffbIfzh9wtHMJ7heLrojuyu8q_DDJgL2hoNatry9F3gZehqeDCTqrqKxWQfVfPtIpt61SPkrBpFR5h4cUBcUa-Damtg2TY95ohtqNj2NGzRV2V7eqwsSps5MVXih07WYdD9nPhRoZE/s1600/marchwall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqUffbIfzh9wtHMJ7heLrojuyu8q_DDJgL2hoNatry9F3gZehqeDCTqrqKxWQfVfPtIpt61SPkrBpFR5h4cUBcUa-Damtg2TY95ohtqNj2NGzRV2V7eqwsSps5MVXih07WYdD9nPhRoZE/s1600/marchwall.jpg" height="239" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
After a year of working on a single piece, Conference of the Birds, then arranging to have it framed, and suddenly having the wall empty again--the time of Pisces came in and a month of painting craziness happened. In it's wake: eight paintings, as though the tide of March washed in and left treasures on the beachfront of my studio. Now to wonder what the returning waters will bring...<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03162474204678155033noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4292584250842559948.post-35596032444411972762014-03-31T13:20:00.003-04:002014-03-31T13:20:52.567-04:00the bottle whisperer<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8CQG7BA-rRaSKkSOCsAYDxh1a4_aK-Q3J2ZVfLzppExaeJZNSG1-o-WpMLu-iKpRVklYXYh2kNTFj3YIFNT3_j8Wtwr_I6kVsKSnCtF68q4U_WlNTJi7h2j6VSHPycSxHd4pWzQUa9sA/s1600/Glass.blue.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8CQG7BA-rRaSKkSOCsAYDxh1a4_aK-Q3J2ZVfLzppExaeJZNSG1-o-WpMLu-iKpRVklYXYh2kNTFj3YIFNT3_j8Wtwr_I6kVsKSnCtF68q4U_WlNTJi7h2j6VSHPycSxHd4pWzQUa9sA/s1600/Glass.blue.jpg" height="316" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03162474204678155033noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4292584250842559948.post-39889460209578684242014-03-30T08:14:00.001-04:002014-03-30T08:14:08.096-04:00Bottle Show, 2nd room<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03162474204678155033noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4292584250842559948.post-66226993542622996642014-03-27T06:37:00.001-04:002014-03-27T06:37:50.706-04:00Bottle Show!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03162474204678155033noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4292584250842559948.post-60852300951893724292014-03-23T11:47:00.002-04:002014-03-23T11:55:20.283-04:00Shell & Glass<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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oil on mahogany 5 X 11Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03162474204678155033noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4292584250842559948.post-82756749611598801052014-03-21T12:47:00.002-04:002014-03-21T12:47:29.656-04:00New Paintings!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Baba & Upasni<br />
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Conference of the Birds<br />
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Glass & Wood<br />
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Owl 1<br />
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Owl 2<br />
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Owl 3Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03162474204678155033noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4292584250842559948.post-29299312932562863432013-08-31T11:57:00.003-04:002013-08-31T11:57:34.415-04:00WolffLand Video<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="281" mozallowfullscreen="" src="//player.vimeo.com/video/73524057" webkitallowfullscreen="" width="500"></iframe> Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03162474204678155033noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4292584250842559948.post-39132524344628976632013-08-31T11:54:00.004-04:002013-08-31T11:54:26.129-04:00Video!<a href="http://vimeo.com/73524057">Wolffland</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03162474204678155033noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4292584250842559948.post-38879662691776190762013-08-12T09:09:00.002-04:002013-08-12T09:09:25.787-04:00Artist houseWhere I live becomes the inside of my head. Over years it develops a patina of flavor. It has vistas and it has weather detailing. There are favorite sites, even views from high places. They all flow one into another, changing with the time, the light, the mood, and the author's intervention...<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03162474204678155033noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4292584250842559948.post-25087913703697974192013-08-10T08:29:00.005-04:002013-08-10T08:37:30.937-04:00communicationsToday I received a missive from someone who had a dream, wherein our recently deceased, mutual friend sent her a message for me. The message was that he heard me and that he was there (with me). The dreamer and I have never met, although we have both heard of each other.<br />
So goes the morning.<br />
As I recently told another friend I often feel that I am not good at being a human being. Not that I'm a bad one, just some confusion about the lay of the land.<br />
Or perhaps a rather huge confusion about the geography of here, and now.<br />
I find the best way to navigate this lack of clarity is to paint. Then I am making beautiful maps. I suspect they are largely unrelated to what other humans perceive, but always hope that the tourist delight I take in making them will come across.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03162474204678155033noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4292584250842559948.post-10675692570114743552013-08-09T09:32:00.003-04:002013-08-09T09:32:57.661-04:00a place to visit<a href="http://www.wolffland.com/">Wolff Land</a><br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03162474204678155033noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4292584250842559948.post-52195294203983882712013-08-06T12:02:00.003-04:002013-08-06T12:02:43.121-04:00Surfing the City...so sometimes its just too hard to be human. Let me be a carrot with beautiful hair, or an oak tree with years of days in the sun, the rain, the animal infestations, just growing and loosing my leaves.<br />
And then I go out into the tide of city, cut through the crowd on a good knee day, and perhaps sidle on the others. The energy surrounds, defiles, uplifts, and regardless of how you feel, will carry you. The trick is to be in cahoots with it. This is my buddy; the crazy, giant city, effluence. I'm with it. I'm gonna ride this wave till I can't carry the board to the sea, and then I'll hopefully find the sea at my doorstep, my inner door and then at my feet every morning.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03162474204678155033noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4292584250842559948.post-23949591236292491032013-08-05T09:54:00.001-04:002013-08-05T09:54:13.202-04:00NYC August morningThere is a lick of cool in the air, and although it's only the beginning of August I can taste the end of summer before it exhales its last great breath of heat over us. Since there were those several weeks of truly grim weather--this is a joy, only slightly flavored with the melancholy of change.<br />
I've been working on my new website <a href="http://www.wolffland.com/">Wolff Land</a>. There will be a video sometime, hopefully soon. Spent a Sunday working with director and camera person which was wonderful. I hadn't know that you could use a camera lens like a brush. I liked being directed. It allowed me to just surf on ideas and images and not think too hard about structure. They even filmed me painting, which at first I was reluctant to do, but the minute I started fooling with colors on a surface the camera didn't seem too important.<br />
All is in flux and I'm almost four weeks five weeks through my six week Intensive Chinese class. My brain daily takes in a huge amount of information and daily rejects some. It will be interesting to see what remains when the tide of intensive recedes.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03162474204678155033noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4292584250842559948.post-69572713273689964552013-08-04T19:32:00.001-04:002013-08-04T19:32:35.249-04:00Garden of Light | WolffLand.comThe website is up! You can actually buy prints, or paintings......or just wander through the rooms listening to the paintings talk to each other. It's a museum, also.<br />
The Wolff Museum<br />
<br />
<br />
This is just one place you could go:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.wolffland.com/portfolio/item/garden-of-light/211#.Uf7j19o0Bq5.blogger">Garden of Light | WolffLand.com</a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03162474204678155033noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4292584250842559948.post-16968587505332676662013-02-16T09:04:00.000-05:002013-02-16T09:04:07.532-05:00Gold<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03162474204678155033noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4292584250842559948.post-77570426159482731322013-02-03T10:23:00.000-05:002013-02-03T10:23:11.405-05:00Pink & Delicate<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03162474204678155033noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4292584250842559948.post-43093594580434270132013-01-31T17:00:00.002-05:002013-01-31T17:00:13.180-05:00Monday's Ghost
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It was a Monday when
I met the ghost.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was standing
on the corner near my loft, kind of leaning on the air.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was a bit Silver Surfer, a bit old
style hippie, but mostly not there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I saw him right away but didn't understand how to see him. I got that no
one else was seeing him, and that put me right into the realm of life shock
that I inhabit much of the time anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Like when I was giving birth to my son...I kept thinking in the midst of
God awful contractions: Am I really having a baby?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As though I hadn't gone through every moment of those 9
months.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">So there was the
ghost. I went as close as I could and brushed against him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His naked not-thereness silked across
my forearm blooming sky-bluish on my skin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It rippled up my arm and sunrose in my chest like a reverse
heart attack. I hadn't been looking directly at him, but at that I jerked my
head up to try and see his eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And of course he wasn't there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The sky-blue ghost scrape was, though.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People thought it was paint.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'm a painter so that seems logical.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s nice when you can string some
events together and make a coherent sentence.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The ghost bruise
lasted a long time and it troubled my dreams, which are crowded already. Its
sensation ran through my night narratives and I would wake up missing the
missing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would go out, stand on
that corner and loiter.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">One day as I was carrying
groceries home he was walking next to me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He put one hand under my backpack and lifted up the weight.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was afraid to say any thing as there
were a lot of people on the streets, and I wasn't ready to go to the crazy lady
talking to herself place, yet. He went the whole ten blocks to my door, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>then bowed away and there was only the
sidewalk to see. The food in my backpack tasted really good, and the bunch of
pale pink roses that had been in there, poking out, were now the most glamorous
blue violet.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It all sounds very
Tim Burton on a happy day, right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Talking to people had gotten a little harder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was always on the edge of saying: Hey guess what happened
to me? And then knowing I just couldn't go there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have many fringe friends living the jury-rigged life, but
I couldn't get myself to say anything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There began to be odd pauses in some of my conversations. One day I was
with an old friend who has somewhat of a bitter take on certain life
tendencies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was telling me how
men held little interest for her now that the honey pot was gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I demurred and brought up certain male
friends of my own, suggesting that she might reconsider the interaction with
the testosterone sector, at which she said: You're so open minded the wind blows
right through it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The next time I saw the ghost he seemed much older.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It made my arm ache and I wanted to hug
him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I actually stepped forward to
do it, almost colliding with a Mom and her twin stroller.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I reached my arms out he leapt
through me and away, like an arrow that had pierced and then turned into a
bird.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was standing in the middle
of the sidewalk just beyond the Mom and the double decker stroller with his fog
tickling my ears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was terrible
because I stared to cry, big luscious tears jumping out of my eyes, sailing past
my face and sploosing on the ground.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And they were ever so faintly blue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That's when I knew my friend was right, except the wind had
blown right through my heart.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03162474204678155033noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4292584250842559948.post-83102311235008623252013-01-30T16:32:00.002-05:002013-01-30T16:33:10.818-05:00paintings from the 70's<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03162474204678155033noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4292584250842559948.post-72838463286466180722013-01-30T07:23:00.000-05:002013-01-30T07:23:09.619-05:00Wolff & Farina at The Big Apple Circus<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03162474204678155033noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4292584250842559948.post-66330960460985278552013-01-30T07:19:00.001-05:002013-01-30T07:24:25.290-05:00Moon over Manhattan<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03162474204678155033noreply@blogger.com0