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
the sculpture
their response
their ferocity
their sheer viscerality
the body politic
the attacks
the support
the descriptions
the rhetorical skirmish
the public gaze
ahistorical
asocial
atypical
response
repartee
ranting
before the sagging relief of scuttling retirement
and
annulment of the defacto marriage of art + aspiration
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3 comments:
What can anyone say? But viscerally speaking hope is deeper than words.
Good summation of your view from the inside.
I empathise with the internet connection!
Before, yes, before...
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