The argument that science is really abstract, and that painting could be, like music, and, for this reason, that you cannot paint a man leaning against a lamp-post, is utterly ridiculous. That space of science—the space of the physicist—I am truly bored with by now. Their lenses are so thick that seen through them, the space gets more and more melancholy. All that it contains is billions and billions of hunks of matter, hot or cold, floating around in darkness according to a great design of aimlessness. The stars I think about, if I could fly, I could reach in a few old-fashioned days. But physicists' stars I use as buttons, buttoning up curtains of emptiness. If I stretch my arms next to the rest of myself and wonder where my fingers are—that is all the space I need as a painter.
(This is poetry; in fact, it's better than most poetry calling itself poetry.)
No comments:
Post a Comment