I am not a painter, I am a poet. Why? I think I would rather be a painter, but I am not. Well, for instance, Mike Goldberg is starting a painting. I drop in. “Sit down and have a drink” he says. I drink; we drink. I look up. “You have SARDINES in it.” “Yes, it needed something there.” “Oh.” I go and the days go by and I drop in again. The painting is going on, and I go, and the days go by. I drop in. The painting is finished. “Where’s SARDINES?” All that’s left is just letters, “It was too much”” Mike says. But me? One day I am thinking of a color: orange. I write a line about orange. Pretty soon it is a whole page of words, not lines. Then another page. There should be so much more, not of orange, of words, of how terrible orange is and life. Days go by. It is even in prose, I am a real poet. My poem is finished and I haven’t mentioned orange yet. It’s twelve poems, I call it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery I see Mike’s painting, called SARDINES. —Frank O’Hara
The all seeing eye: as the index begins to appropriate the content, the urge to flatter, cajole, deceive and disrupt it overwhelms. Questions get asked, and they ask how to construct an action; how to develop a narrative and how make an object, its primary function the specific inclusion within an index? How to make the index the hook from which all the content, all of the action hangs? And how to make make it the conclusion to any plot you care to conceive? And how then to make the very last word of it vital yet irrelevant to the reading of all of those preceding?
Maybe meta modern
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I am not a painter, I am a poet. Why? I think I would rather be a painter, but I am not. Well, for instance, Mike Goldberg is starting a painting. I drop in. “Sit down and have a drink” he says. I drink; we drink. I look up. “You have SARDINES in it.” “Yes, it needed something there.” “Oh.” I go and the days go by and I drop in again. The painting is going on, and I go, and the days go by. I drop in. The painting is finished. “Where’s SARDINES?” All that’s left is just letters, “It was too much”” Mike says. But me? One day I am thinking of a color: orange. I write a line about orange. Pretty soon it is a whole page of words, not lines. Then another page. There should be so much more, not of orange, of words, of how terrible orange is and life. Days go by. It is even in prose, I am a real poet. My poem is finished and I haven’t mentioned orange yet. It’s twelve poems, I call it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery I see Mike’s painting, called SARDINES. —Frank O’Hara
The all seeing eye: as the index begins to appropriate the content, the urge to flatter, cajole, deceive and disrupt it overwhelms. Questions get asked, and they ask how to construct an action; how to develop a narrative and how make an object, its primary function the specific inclusion within an index? How to make the index the hook from which all the content, all of the action hangs? And how to make make it the conclusion to any plot you care to conceive? And how then to make the very last word of it vital yet irrelevant to the reading of all of those preceding?