In honor of Cubism, Gertrude Stein, and Cezanne, a fractured ravels in review that attempts to document the act of ravelling. (Unfragmented links included).
Yesterday, it was Cubism, Visual and Literal, without Gertrude Stein’s mug in the end, before some explicit in odd ways not explicit enough notes on Butt in ASS , dear lord what a title for an exhibition, and horses, really big horses and what glitter at Jack the Pelican and why would they have named the gallery that, whose full name is Jack the Pelican Presents, and then in between is smushed a really great piece written by Richard Serra– Had I dressed it up better, images and all, maybe more people would have read it, my eyes are caked with sleep, before, before is so long ago, and my finger hurts from a paper cut given by a file folder, who knew such barbarities existed, so then here we are, we’re reviewing ravels, but what the hell happened this week, do I drink too much that I have the memory of a goldfish, but wait–I’ll check, oh dear, I really need a new website. And then i had written about loving my ‘hood, which terrible choice of word now strikes me as particularly annoying, and yet we must march on, although to note the accordion shop is choice, and so then- then now my boyfriend came into my room and did a flying ninja pose and told a work story, Gertrude didn’t have to deal with this, and so lastly I see I wrote about the High Line, which is nice, as I tell you, but maybe not so special it needs to be written about so much, but then I broke that cardinal.
Pablo Picasso, The Reservoir, Herta de Ebro
