There I am all head beside a window, sunlight turning bright yellow walls to mud-shades, darkening greens. Nothing moves. I am dreaming or constructing a death. My left arm hangs. My right balances on the flat wood of the sill. It is not far to the ground. It is never not far to the ground. I dream: my parents stroll arm in arm. Or my father waits among columns for the train. There is sequence: all those bodies escaping the station until there is nothing but tubes of air, weeping concrete. A bird’s body moving headless, then flaring in a crucifixion of flight... Dreamed, veiled reflection, untitled. Slow swirl at the edge of a sea. The grand panels of summer bleeding in cloud shapes to autumn dusk. There is this sense now of oil filling the ear— oil warmed in tap water— cotton stuffed in the hollows, so I am deaf again and on my back, the vaporizer churning. And beside it all—one shade—drawn— flexing like a drumhead, saturated with bands of orange where the paper is thin, but then rendered opaque, thrilling, then shot again with unburied light. This, the skin of the world, nineteen-something-nothing. My ears packed with oil, eyes pinched to cracks. The shade purpling, then flashing to magenta, settling blue. It, too, alive, wildly breathing.
Untitled (Portrait), 1939 Untitled, 1939 Underground Fantasy [Subway], c. 1940 Hierarchical Birds, 1940 1944 Untitled, 1948 White, Orange and Yellow, 1953 Untitled [Purple, White and Red], 1953 No 27 [Light Band] [White Band], 1954