When I walked into the museum it was

everything in relation to Moscow or Warsaw. I remembered a life that had been in relation to Szeged and Veresegyház. Maybe this is where I say something about how age is nothing but a number. I can’t justify saying that when I feel a certain way about the years as they pass. The Museum of Russian Art (MORA) was lovely and strange.

Looking at a beautiful collection of paintings from various -isms/movements/historical backdrops were incredible. There was a great breadth to the curated works that really allowed you think and breathe about the Russian people, their artists and culture and its descendants.  I was thinking about Mayakovsky, and his story, and his death and works. I was thinking about looking at someone’s work and life as a still or distilled image of the actual reality. I then remembered how naked I felt when I read Impossible or even his poem about the Brooklyn Bridge and I think I learned something about student-ship. The real possibility of being seen by our teachers, dead or alive. The universe sending us something new and it is our choice how we receive it (back to that choice piece). I wrote a poem about Oscar Mischeaux, a film maker whose works started in the silent era and reached forward into the Talkies. some of these were greatly inflammatory and responses to D.W. Griffiths’ Birth of a Nation. (I don’t have adjectives for this film).  They were left out of conversations I had in my Silent Film course in college.  This is largely because Mischeaux’s films were banned then exported to Europe. Etcetera.

I felt a lot when I finally found him in the margins of my Silent Film Reader. His text was not entirely forgotten.

Still, I do not really know what any of this means. I know that at the Museum everything was geographically placed in relation to a city many miles away. I know also that the artists were acknowledged only by who they were students of or with or the -ism they influenced. Is there more than that? As an artist I can’t help but acknowledge that who I read/study/workshop/listen to might find their way into the nameplate of my painting someday. Maybe I in theirs.

Only the years would tell. Only the numbers. I don’t know what I’m grappling with here. I’m going to the bookstore.

The bookstore always helps, something like Tiffany’s…

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