She Don't Play
In every game there are rules. Usually it's not the rule makers who teach them to you, to everyone who has to play by them. You know the rules of your game. I know mine. Don't mix metaphors, the oxford comma is no longer necessary. Slim down. Cut. Watch. Roll.
If you've ever studied art you are taught the rules early and without ambiguity. No "kissing." No symmetry. No "hairy" lines. I don't even know if kids these days have to learn them because they are saturated with design. But I did. For me it's more than a sneaking feeling when they're broken. I know it straightway and I see the hutzpah. Unless it's more than that. And sometimes it is. Sometimes it's art. Because usually rules are design.
|Lee Friedlander, Yale Art Gallery, 2014|
Lee Friedlander broke all the rules, and broke the game. This is art, friend. Her face, eyes closed, is enclosed in a triangle, geometry's strongest form. Her hands kiss the steps, wrapping up with the window back to her chin, lips held tight against her teeth. Her silence roars. Her closed eyes mesmerize. She is pure power.
Inside herself, inside this space, worn wood panels born from the nape of her neck, overcast sky, moment of sun sitting just at the roof's edge, she holds the whole world. A Gaia of silence, repose, self-restraint. A whole world of pleasure, pain, people, love, heartbreak, song, sits on her lap. A world of words is under her tongue. You can hear the stillness all around her and the heartbeats resonate with her breath.
She is pure power. You can either enclose her, hold her power, or see it destroy the whole world.
Or... remake it.