A Sunday On The Grande Jatte - Poem by Alexandre Nodopaka
For a long time Georges and I argued about colors in our paintings.
My quarrel was that a minimalist quantity mattered while my friend
insisted at length to the contrary.
Umpteen years later we realized we talked about different units
of measurement. I, the thickness of paint. He, the number of dots. And
to prove it he painted that famous public park in fifty versions with
the last one the dullest. He drew charts upon charts to prove his point,
pardon my pun, to the point that I saw only moving dots before my eyes.
But it didn't matter to the future great artist he was to become.
In spite of my kibitzing telling him that the hats on the ladies heads were
over the top because it was a sporty outdoors scene and that the scene
had too much visual verticality and needed a few beach goers in striped
T-shirted boxer shorts with others in prone positions on their backs.
Hands under their heads, legs crossed, knee over knee. Nah! Georgie
didn't pay one frickin iota of attention to my mumblings.
Besides, I also told him the landscape didn't have any dynamic feel and
that the density of the hues was much too even and too subdued in intensity
and that only the darker foreground saved his ass.
Well, ok, the perspective is OK. But I tell you, those color dots
drove me crazy. And that miniature yapper next to the monkey! Monkey?
That's monkey business! I'd report that woman for monkey-beating,
frowned-upon form of sexual self-harassment. Finally, nobody gives
a shit about philosophy in art or its virtual optics or the psychological
influences of color vision, nor its relationship to the other senses, nor
the role it plays in our understanding of the outside world All this, is all
too much for a quiet pubic park. There's no way artists will jump on his
polka-dot wagon unless there is a rump underneath.
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