Showing posts with label Jean Helion. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Jean Helion. Show all posts

Saturday, September 21, 2013

MY TIME AFTER A WHILE 2








It's your time now baby,
But it's gonna be mine 
after awhile;
It's your time right now baby,
Lord, but it's gonna be mine after awhile.
You know you know if things don't change
I'm gonna move on down.






A couple of years ago I posted another blog called My Time After A While, which examined, after a fashion, the life of career of the 20th century French painter Jean Hélion, who has for a long time been a great favorite of mine.  I know more about painting than a lot of people, but until I read about a Hélion retrospective exhibition being held at the Pace Gallery on East 57th Street sometime in the mid-1970s, I wasn’t aware of his work. The person writing about the show in the Village Voice (at that time a fine, highly individual newspaper and  go-to source for New York culture and politics) was so enthusiastic, and the art illustrating the article, paintings in Hélion’s “comic book” style, was so arresting that I rushed to see the exhibition as quickly as possible. The works  displayed really were masterpieces – both the figurative and the earlier  abstract paintings – and had the "reconciling contraries” quality undergirding most art I like.  I aspire to that kind of energy balance in my own life, but instead of achieving a Charles Atlas-like dynamic tension, I tend either to flail around unattractively and ineffectively or seem utterly inert and dispirited. I tell myself that I am sincere, however; I am not counterfeiting anything, and there’s nowhere to go but up.  The Buddy Guy song that titles the two posts is a masterpiece also.


 

Monday, November 7, 2011

Later Sonnet (Edwin Denby)









 
In a hotelroom a madman
Breaks off armchair leg, brains me
Asleep; clever Paris surgeon
Extracts stomach; been killed nearly
Who hasn’t, the much worse rents of love
Even of selfesteem survived
Left shamefully but glad to still live
Watch the rich hide, watch the poor hide
Death’s dread; trapped when I turn toward friends
Long dead when I found them, poets
Who when I’m crazed give my heart strength
By their tone of voice they do it
Some of their death-dread can be shook
Jumping across, eyes read a book










Paintings:

Top:  Jean Helion, Untitled, 1943

Bottom: Jean Helion, Untitled, 1943