“the ordinary, made extraordinary”
How they crow.
Hooper’s paintings are quintessential America in a stupor, shallow breaths of air with yearning- stripped of disappointment. Trapped wilt-roses, windows of idealistic light, (fall short).
Alienating familiarity floats stagnant- the technique so noble but the voiding gasp filters the sky to but a watless grey mass.
And it’s all there- all of it, closed in fake-shade boxcars, bloated by respect-goers ground by fluorescence, shame-sweating pores.
Those little figures in those little rooms, the Cape Cod houses: is that it? All there is?
Colors so pretty, she says (a beautiful angel), triple toned traces- go, look! Moment’s nice but then…again, and again, next room, trap, stop, grey trap.
No envious greens or passionate reds, gone slick orange or silver moonshine- and those blues!
Such grainy blues,
Murked
Not even a moment of clarity.
And I hate it. Stale-tart hate it, shivering, hate for/it. Just so much.
1 comment:
I just had a flashback of this day. I was searching everywhere for you. Found you outside writing. I think my love of this exhibit was directly proportional to your hate of it. So it goes. I'm thinking about surprising you by showing up at one of your yoga classes but I can't afford it right now. I'm planning to drive down to Florida this winter. I'd like to detour your way. I'll be in touch.
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