At the bridge of the failed painter, I stoop and check the sagging timbers before placing one foot, then the other, on this sorry decrepitude. It cracks and pops like a first fleet ship, but the sounds are not ominous; more the rattled wheezing of an invalid friend. I proceed with care,sucking the thumb pricked on its splintery balustrade. Ahead, lies the gate and welltrod path and, branching like spider veins, the merest hints of tracks―overgrown, leading to a wilderness filled with possibilities. I stand and consider. Buttoning my duffel coat—a veteran of the moth wars, I step off the path, and into the weeds.
©L.M.Noonan
Concerning my last post, I found this article penned by Ms Greer for the Guardian.
She loves upsetting the applecart.
PS...I like apples; red ones, green ones. Just as long as they're crisp.
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2 comments:
The way I read it is she is lambasting both, which makes it all the more juicy.
ps. I had a discussion on wet canvas with the founder of the stuckist group, Charles Thomson. Most it had to do with their manifesto that I didn't agree with and my unwillingness to dismiss all art that didn't fit with the stuckist view.
Why, if all Damien is after is self promotion and money, can't we ignore him. Perhaps it is that we would like a bit of recognition and money for our efforts.
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