¤枝繁葉茂

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Arnulf Rainer



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Melissa Steckbauer

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http://www.ivid.it/home
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Jenseits der Stille
http://www.markusheltschl.de/index.html




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Walerian Borowczyk
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Nevinnost (2011）

http://www.avion.net/feature-film/default.aspx

http://www.profimedia.com/image/detail/0089024320




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New York, 1 February 1982. 25th Anniversary Lunch of Castelli Gallery at The Odeon
Standing left - right: Ellsworth Kelly, Dan Flavin, Joseph Kosuth, Richard Serra, Lawerence Weiner, Nassos Daphnis, Jasper Johns, Claes Oldenberg, Salvatore Scarpitta, Richard Artschwager, Mia Westerlund Roosen, Cletus Johnson, Keith Sonnier
Seated left - right: Andy Warhol, Robert Rauschenberg, Leo Castelli, Ed Ruscha, James Rosenquist, Robert Barry
Photo: Hans Namuth
Photo courtesy of Alfred A. Knopf

Frank O'Hara

(1926-1966)

Why I Am Not a Painter

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.

 

 

(1971)

 

A Step Away From Them

It's my lunch hour, so I go

for a walk among the hum-colored

cabs. First, down the sidewalk

where laborers feed their dirty

glistening torsos sandwiches

and Coca-Cola, with yellow helmets

on. They protect them from falling

bricks, I guess. Then onto the

avenue where skirts are flipping

above heels and blow up over

grates. The sun is hot, but the

cabs stir up the air. I look

at bargains in wristwatches. There

are cats playing in sawdust.

                                        
                  On

to Times Square, where the sign

blows smoke over my head, and higher

the waterfall pours lightly. A

Negro stands in a doorway with a

toothpick, languorously agitating.

A blonde chorus girl clicks: he

smiles and rubs his chin. Everything

suddenly honks: it is 12:40 of

a Thursday.

                   Neon in daylight is a

great pleasure, as Edwin Denby would

write, as are light bulbs in daylight.

I stop for a cheeseburger at JULIET'S

CORNER. Giulietta Masina, wife of

Federico Fellini, e bell' attrice.

And chocolate malted. A lady in

foxes on such a day puts her poodle

in a cab.

              There are several Puerto

Ricans on the avenue today, which

makes it beautiful and warm. First

Bunny died, then John Latouche,

then Jackson Pollack. But is the

earth as full as life was full, of them?

And one has eaten and one walks,

past the magazines with nudes

and the posters for BULLFIGHT and

the Manhattan Storage Warehouse,

which they'll soon tear down. I

used to think they had the Armory

Show there.

                    A glass of papaya juice

and back to work. My heart is in my

pocket, it is Poems by Pierre Reverdy.

 

 

(1956)

 

To Larry Rivers

You are worried that you don't write?

Don't be. It's the tribute of the air that

your paintings don't just let go

of you. And what poet ever sat down

in front of a Titian, pulled out

his versifying tablet and began

to drone? Don't complain, my dear,

You do what I can only name.

 

 

 

On Seeing Larry Rivers' Washington Crossing the Delaware At the Museum of Modern Art

Now that our hero has come back to us

in his white pants and we know his nose

trembling like a flag under fire,

we see the calm cold river is supporting

our forces, the beautiful history.

 

 

To be more revolutionary than a nun

is our desire, to be secular and intimate

as, when sighting a redcoat, you smile

and pull the trigger. Anxieties

and animosities, flaming and feeding

 

 

on theoretical considerations and

the jealous spiritualities of the abstract,

the robot? they're smoke, billows above

the physical event. They have burned up.

See how free we are! as a nation of persons.

 

 

Dear father of our country, so alive

you must have lied incessantly to be

immediate, here are your bones crossed

on my breast like a rusty flintlock,

a pirate's flag, bravely specific

 

 

and ever so light in the misty glare

of a crossing by water in winter to a shore

other than that the bridge reaches for.

Don't shoot until, the white of freedom glinting

on your gun barrel, you see the general fear.