The Art that Fails

Wednesday, July 15, 2020

I also love the art that fails. I love
the Shakespearean extra, doublet inset
with satin flames, loafing stage left

like an abject caddy. I love the glacier
painted out of its majesty, tamed
by careful shading, its ice become a blanket

hiding a child. I love the little sward
in the atlas, the turf at the pole
where the astronomer stands, aligning

overly cooperative stars. I love the waif
penciled into the faux finish,
gainsaying the wood-grain—that is,

the curlicue under the stain subtly
debunking the oak’s burl. And the cut-purse
weaving Cruyff turns on the police procedural—

I cannot help it: I love him, too.

Wednesday, July 15, 2020