The most compelling piece was an incidental moment rather than any piece of art, which is often the case.
Twenty miles west of Barstow, where the desert appears especially endless, I glimpsed the Tank Man in Tiananmen Square.
C. and I play a game whenever we enter a gallery: after spending a few minutes looking at every painting in the room, we guess each other’s favorite.
William Kentridge’s smoldering landscapes look like scenes from a fast-approaching future. Meanwhile, a Chinese surveillance balloon was spotted over Montana.
Heavy art followed by a fingernail moon over the Rockies as we crossed the Continental Divide.
At Cracker Barrel, C. and I discussed Tristan Tzara, Model 500, Basic Channel, and vaporwave over Grandpa’s Country Fried Breakfast.
C. and I spent the afternoon in a dark gallery and tested how our video reflected off different surfaces.
This morning I fed a robot a few sentences from the novel I’m writing, and it generated some startlingly accurate pictures.
There’s a waxing crescent moon and I’m reading about God.
London. After six weeks here, I still find myself stopping in the street, stunned by how low the clouds hang on this island.
It was nice to believe in the future for a little while.
Yesterday I saw the birthplace of William Blake, now a strip of concrete between an Indian restaurant and an expensive handbag store.
London. A sunny Wednesday morning with highs in the 50s, the sun goes down at 5:30pm, and I’m recovering from an exhibition of Francis Bacon’s animal paintings.
A sunny Friday in October with a high in the 80s, and it’s startling to see Christ looking so human, so plain.
Sunset: 6:18pm. A high of 70 degrees and 84% humidity. Spent a late night at the cemetery chapel, tending to the responses to After the End.
Sunset: 6:30pm. Moon: New. My father would have turned 73 today.
I’m attempting to read Gustav Flaubert’s The Temptation of Saint Anthony.
She gave me the most magnificent gift: a small framed reproduction of my favorite painting.
The image of the Pietà occupies such a distinct place in memory that I often forget it translates to “the pity”.
I wanted to visit my favorite statues and paintings before things begin closing again.
