Barcelona: Implication

The Constellations are a harmoniously composed series of 23 gouaches that Miró painted to escape the trauma of the war years. — The Joan Miró Foundation We’ve all gouached. Haven’t we? Pollock lashed stretched canvas that was Nude. Was said to call his Ruth prude and he spat chew in a coffee can and shat bloodily in the can. When I was twenty I spent three hours in a room with the Free- Spirited Types moving from one inviting orifice to the welcome of another. I was lost in my wood, savage and stern. But also I understood that when it was later and I was wiser I could never forgive Herr Pfizer. My father said we’ve all got an East River. He had a tenuous web of veins for a liver. His loss. Literally. Mom’s impatient art was proved to be the most effective part of her mothering: you should see her rich greens well up in the power of the middle and grow lean as they colonize the crusted edges. My love for her is impregnable. Pity Miró, moonblind, weary on the rocky coast of Portugal, walking cliff paths and getting lost. His quest for childish wonder has bent him and riddled his skin before its time. Put this together with that! Paint it yellow! Murk the sky with banks of Periwinkle and Snow. Gouache a widened eye low on the right, so it can behold the left and the night.