I prepare for a collage the same way that
I prepare for a day: searching for the
impossible conception, the way a husband
may tell his wife to cut off the fat.
She responds Stoically & abrubt:
"Perhaps if I cut off your testicles . . . "
—silence always occurs at this stage;
silence of the human slug. So to speak?
My collages are the gastronomy
of Genoa. I rip out the warm elegance
of a master bedroom, paste it to the
railroads that may go through the Pacific—
a future slum of glue; a dab here, a dab
there (I grin concentratedly like a child,
feeling daring, less impressed by
my helplessness) filtering through
the alternations between engaging tempos
of ephemera & breaking them free
from their hidden epithelium, neighborly
hecatontomes. I pause to consider.
I unpause to reconsider, the way that
New York City is never phased unless
terror strikes, & even by then the media
plays pantomime, plays out, files away.
In art, disregarding rules is like NWA
disregarding police, except without all of
the symbiotic rage. Chunky protein collage:
essence of Klimt, sloppy Joe, faint cracks
in the absolutes of a scholar's pale face;
holes in his eyes replaced with replicas
of vantage points. The world around him
falls in the night; hard-bitten, an abyss
of colorful strips of folded jar-flung regions.
What is this collage, these collages, but
fractured bits of composition within the sum
of cranking parts? I stare near-sightedly over
the results, put a close to the downrush
of wild energy, can hear the closed-off
howls of a new creation as I walk away
seeking dinner, the way youth vanishes.