Richard Serra, Revision, and Throwing Things (Out)

The article in the New Yorker this week (June 11 & 18, 2007) and the Richard Serra retrospective at the MOMA this summer, which the article covers, had me thinking of an old poem of mine, below. I decided to drag it out and attempt a revision. The original and revision follows.

The picture above is from the site, http://37signals.com/

One thing I loved about the article by Peter Schjedahl is the following:

“Serra’s mostly magnificent retrospective at the Museum of Modern Art proves that he is not only our greatest sculptor but an artist whose subject is greatness befitting our time.”

Anyone who has seen these Serra’s up close and has wobbled in their imposing presence can relate to Schjedahl’s words. Serra’s work is so many things at the same time: masculine/ feminine/ imposing/ intimate/ ambitious/ simple/ modern/ primitive— he is major and I am hoping the winds carry me to New York this summer to see this show.

I have always loved the famous image of Serra throwing molten lead in 1969, seen here in a photograph by Gianfranco Georgoni, (as found on http://members.aol.com/mindwebart3/richard5.htm); it has always seemed to me like Serra inheriting Pollock’s method (yes, we all know Pollock isn’t the first to drip paint)— only with more physicality and risk. Moving the center of the art universe from action painting to sculpture in one violent toss of liquid metal. It is a great photo that captures a shift in the focus of art.

Over the past few days I have done some additional work on the paper images— this last one I worked on I went the wrong direction with. I used colors that were a bit too heavy. It is nowhere near as effective— so, this one is headed for the trash. Makes me think of Monet, who had people scavenging through his trash for swatches of canvases that he ripped up— I think my work is still a little far from inspiring eBay hopefuls to scour through my coffee grounds.

So, as Serra is throwing things like lead, I am led to throwing things away.

Here are both the poem and the revision, which I am still working on:


MOUTHS LIKE TORQUED ELLIPSES

While we walked around the Rickard Serra’s
there was this slanted shine reflected back
from black gallery floors. Your summer sandals
stretched up along those long tan legs
beneath the scandal of a button-front khaki skirt—
both our sets of ankles wobbled in reaction
to the curve of metal mouths gasping
at the footfalls of Manhattan wincing their way
around them— a trail like that of fingertips
teasing lips you want to get so much of
your mouth waters as your knees brace
against the curve of earth, and even breathing
seems so delicate that you wonder
when you’ll fall.


MOUTHS LIKE TORQUED ELLIPSES

Against the certain curve of earth
you wonder when you’ll fall. Your
knees brace below the scandal
of a button-front skirt— your uncertain
fingers fumbled against the buttonholes
this morning while the sun persuaded
its way

above the bend of river
in the distance. Someone is clapping
their hands, uncertain about
performance, or the performer, performing
mismatched rhythm in the storeroom
of a sinking barge—

or that type of forget-the-car driving
through an extra-long tunnel
on the Pennsylvania thruway. If this
were a rollercoaster, let’s face it, we’d both
be screaming. But here our ankles wobble,
roll and crest, your strappy sandals
pinch against skin, our eyes squint
and search for thin openings

in this metal manufactured light. Footfalls
click and gasp out slanted shine; reflect it
back against black gallery floors— the looping
soundtrack of Manhattan

searching for a long, drawn-out, off-to-war,
farewell kiss full of passion and memory, a dance
so delicate you forget you’re already moving;
watch the ship depart for something
else, and far away, and farther, and hold
onto the dock.