ARTISTS
Some Shorter Lines for MARTIN PURYEAR
A few months ago, Martin Puryear asked me to write an essay for a catalogue to accompany an exhibition of his new work at McKee Gallery
David Levi Strauss / The Brooklyn Rail
01 Sep, 2012
A few months ago, Martin Puryear asked me to write an essay for a catalogue to accompany an exhibition of his new work at McKee Gallery (May 3 - June 29, 2012). When I went to Martin鈥檚 studio to see the sculptures that would appear in the show, the wheels immediately began to turn, and I knew that I could write the essay. In the essay, titled 鈥淟ooking Back to Move Forward,鈥� there were certain things I felt I needed to do, and some things I could not do. The sculptures continued to work on me, and the wheels kept turning. So here are four further attempts at 鈥渓anguage in the vicinity of what it鈥檚 talking about,鈥� as Bill Berkson (quoting Carter Ratcliff paraphrasing Robert Smithson) defined criticism. The titles are Martin鈥檚.
The Rest
The rest might ask
What鈥檚 at stake
In rolling stock
From a stuck era?
Move on, they鈥檒l say,
But their memories
Will not necessarily
Be loaded with bodies.
Here, the load
Is carefully concealed
In medium and scale,
But vivid, in the making.
The cart rocks back
To lift its tongue
In praise, insubordination,
And hope.
The Rest is history.
Black Cart
A shadow swells
On a scumbled ground,
Civil distortion,
Coming round and around.
A constellation cart
In a darkening sky,
Like a Big Dipper asterism
To the naked eye.
What鈥檚 rising
In this form,
In the back of a child鈥檚 head,
Heading into a storm?
Scrolling
Light on its feet,
Like a sign.
Only line,
With a little depth,
Suspended in mind,
Over the possibility
Of flight.
The Load
Carrus in a cortege,
Carrying the Angel of History
Forward, looking back,
鲍苍产濒颈苍办颈苍驳鈥�
A perfectly public sphere
Concealing a concave mirror
In which we see ourselves
Reflected, Etant donn茅s,
Back into our own
Implicated eyes.
The rest might ask
What鈥檚 at stake
In rolling stock
From a stuck era?
Move on, they鈥檒l say,
But their memories
Will not necessarily
Be loaded with bodies.
Here, the load
Is carefully concealed
In medium and scale,
But vivid, in the making.
The cart rocks back
To lift its tongue
In praise, insubordination,
And hope.
The Rest is history.
Black Cart
A shadow swells
On a scumbled ground,
Civil distortion,
Coming round and around.
A constellation cart
In a darkening sky,
Like a Big Dipper asterism
To the naked eye.
What鈥檚 rising
In this form,
In the back of a child鈥檚 head,
Heading into a storm?
Scrolling
Light on its feet,
Like a sign.
Only line,
With a little depth,
Suspended in mind,
Over the possibility
Of flight.
The Load
Carrus in a cortege,
Carrying the Angel of History
Forward, looking back,
鲍苍产濒颈苍办颈苍驳鈥�
A perfectly public sphere
Concealing a concave mirror
In which we see ourselves
Reflected, Etant donn茅s,
Back into our own
Implicated eyes.
