Time unfurls like the pages of a book. Not a book that you intend to read but rather like an anthology of poetry that you leave near your bed merely to admire.
A great deal of art-making is allowing things to appear. Images appear in a mirror when they are brought before the reflective surface, but that is not how art appears.
Art appears like a shadow. And then it disappears in the light.
Funny how we need light to see things.
All art has a surface. That is where our uncertainty lies.
All the uncertainty in the world resides in art's surface. A single disturbance and the whole world becomes unsettled.
I once claimed that "art makes the world new" but now that I am older I see art as the wrinkles on the face of the world: too much sunlight, too many cigarettes...wrinkles are already forming around the mouth of the world and the world is still so young.
If the world cannot be new, how can time be new? Time is the essence of ageing. Or is it perhaps not? Is it just a reservoir of memorials? Death after death well up in the eyes of time and pour out not in tears but in spirits that glide over the surface of art. Spirits that take the form of words, words that take the form of language.
All the poems I've read, even the silly ones, have been a requiem for language.
Those words will never live again.
I was re-reading an essay I wrote on Shklovsky's Theory of Prose and I now feel a startling kind of "enstrangement", one that I did not account for back when I detailed the use of "enstrangement" in Tolstoy's work. I am strange to myself (which is, I know, a modernist cliché) and, as I read my own words, I wonder who wrote them. Why don't I feel that way about my art?
It is like time turns all things to art(ifact).