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  • Where do we live in the entrails of perspective?

    How big do we believe we are, in the larger rock scheme?

    How large do we see ourselves in relationship to the sea where the iron stairs go to nowhere but pain's relief?

    If we know art only by a postcard of the painting, what breath composure are we missing? In all senses of missing, in all of our senses...? The smell of old paint, old sweat of visors, visitors, old bench food; feet. What oxygen do we miss when we sit with the replica in our hand, believing (or our brains believe for us) that the art is simply the information? When the canvas is enormous, everything changes. You change.

    We travelled up the wild coast, where the cliffs ran down their piney aromas all the way up to the French border. Bold muscular feminine visages, hard rock mirages on the limpid sea accompanied us on the way. When we got to the Dali Museum at Figueres, we saw that Dali had been a social realist, after all: painting the dreamscape which enters your eyes as landscape and reconfigures as world, behind your retinas.

    I was small beside the Dali. I was smaller than the flea circus acrobat on a postcard of it. The feeling is tonic. All things are not reducible to the same as other things. At a certain size, things are not about size any more, the change ilk, type, kind.

    The painting was a kind of wild metropole high Dali put down in paint, the enormity we associate with cities, yet big as deserts, oceans, castaways withering to a grain of sand, while the sea rushes on.

    Be in world's sculpting!

    (Photo of Susan, Dali Museum, Figueres Spain, October 1996)
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