Thanks Christina. I'm pretty chuffed with this one. I had recently read a
specular poem by Julia Copus who claims to have invented the form. Strangely
it wasn't difficult to do. I'd read the Copus poem and read an article about
this painting and Bacon's response shortly after.I wrote a piece on it and
then went back to Copus to see how she did it. Everything seemed to click
into place as they do sometimes, plus I have a great deal of empathy for the
life and work of Vincent. I must look at some art books or search his
letters as its an interesting little corner of art history.
bw
James


>From: Christina Fletcher <[log in to unmask]>
>Reply-To: The Pennine Poetry Works <[log in to unmask]>
>To: [log in to unmask]
>Subject: Re: New sub: Self Portrait On The Road To Tarascon
>Date: Fri, 30 Aug 2002 10:01:18 EDT
>
>I think this works very well, James.  It's very interesting and extremely
>clever.  I love the first (and last) line - it triggers so many thoughts.
>It
>made me fish around in my books to see whether I could find a reproduction
>of
>the painting but I only have it in black and white.  It was sent to Theo
>with
>thirty five others in 1888 'a rough sketch I made of myself laden with
>boxes,
>props and canvas on the sunny road to Tarascon'.  I like the things you've
>said about the painting and I think the form is a splendid choice for the
>subject matter.  It must have been very difficult to write.  I'm filled
>with
>admiration and envy (argh...).
>bw
>christina
>
> > SELF PORTRAIT ON THE ROAD TO TARASCON
> >
> > He finally burns in fire-bombed Dresden,
> > through his colours, like a cat,
> > takes on other lives - remains
> > consumed by the landscape he places himself within.
> > Not painting, he walks instead
> > motionless, outside the space our eyes view him.
> > Exact centre
> > he portrays an awkward marionette entwined
> > in adamantine vertical and horizontal grids
> > of horizon trees and road
> > with no order of perspective,
> > stuck in the never-never land of his journey with backpack
> > somewhere between dimensions two and three
> > where his shadow finds consolation
> > on the picture surface rather than the road -
> > yet to face his monsters his form tarries.
> >
> > Yet to face his monsters his form tarries
> > on the picture  surface rather than the road -
> > where his shadow finds consolation
> > somewhere between dimensions two and three
> > stuck in the never-never land of his journey with his pack
> > with no order of perspective
> > of horizon trees and road.
> > In adamantine vertical and horizontal grids
> > he portrays an awkward marionette entwined.
> > Exact centre,
> > motionless outside the space our eyes view him,
> > not painting, he walks instead
> > consumed by the landscape he placed himself within,
> > takes on other lives - remains
> > through his colours, like a cat.
> > He finally burns in fire-bombed Dresden.
> >
> >
> > bw
> > James
> >
>
>




bw
James


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