I wonder what the poetic equivalent of this art installation would be. Flarf? In the visual arts I find this kind of massive accumulation of detail deeply engaging. Why do I distrust it in poetry? Do I distrust it? I find Allen Ginsberg‘s long catalogs moving and often very finely tuned, intellectually. “Black Acid Co-op” feels like Ginsberg to me — it doesn’t appear to be interested in undercutting its own position with irony, except the irony of putting all this in an art gallery, of course.
In Hanoi, lots of businesses are conducted from bicycles. Here, a merchant is selling ceramics carefully tied to her bike and balanced so that she can still ride even with a load that must be a couple of hundred pounds. Most of the pottery like this is made in the Village of Bat Trang outside the city, where the industry served the court in the 18th century, then the colonial urban elite in the 19th and 20th; now, after the revolution, when there was very little production, the industry has revived in a big way, selling mostly inexpensive wares for everyday use. But the Vietnamese have a higly developed sense of style and even ordinary objects are designed and decorated with care. It’s one of the things I like best about Vietnam.
And not in a good way. It’s a shame to obscure the work of Edward Hopper with a haze of purple prose.
Three days ago, we found a luna moth sheltering from the rain under the eaves of the front porch. It had attached itself to an old window screen waiting to go to the dump. Stayed two days, then yesterday when the sun came out took off. These huge, beautiful creatures live only a week after they emerge. Profligate nature!
There’s a show at MOMA I’d like to see, of James Ensor’s proto-modernist paintings. I find my own aesthetic roots in the period of western art and literature that runs from the end of the 19th century through the First World War — the period of what is sometimes called High Modernism. The NY Times reviewer, Holland Cotter, calls Ensor “an aggrieved traditionalist with a pop culture itch,” words that I might apply to myself. Ensor also labored all his life away from the centers of culture where artistic reputations were made. Ensor strikes me as paradigmatic of modernism in his combining of high and low culture and his subversion of technique by technique. [A barely adequate Wikipedia entry here; Google image results here.] One loves the old modes and methods even when they are no longer viable and one is reduced to parody and pastiche.