Wednesday, February 24, 1999
Nothing quite compels on a gray day: the apprehension of warmth, the quiet
indulgence before spring turbulence; no baroque, dark cloud play not even
a rain of pure imagination.
Why, I continue to wonder this morning, this fascination with houses? This
urge to examine their anthropomorphic details? In a city in which so much
life remains anonymous an absence of public life so much can be read
into the facade, the details of a house, or what can be barely glimpsed
through a window. Last night as I walked home on Chattanooga Street, through
one window, through a door into someonešs hall way, along the wall were two
large, dark African tribal masks. With narrow slit eyes, thin pouted lips,
and white cowry shell necklaces, they both looked ready for war, at least a
village parade. In the living room, along a wall with a mirror, were three
multi-layered wooden picture frames, each layer a different color red,
orange or blue. Curiously there were no paintings inside them, only the
sight of a white wall. Turning the corner, inside the large front window of
my across the street neighbor the architect, Anne Fougeron is a large,
un-framed white canvas in which the artist has painted downward swipes of
red and black paint in uneven, parallel rectangular blocks. This morning,
walking up Sanchez, near 22nd I find a Victorian eve under which over blue
they have painted a yellow crescent moon and stars.
What is viewed/seen? Are they not decorative emblems of community? Or, at
least, the brief revelatory moments in which we uncover our neighbor?
Stephen Vincent
Blog: http://stephenvincent.durationpress.com
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