Sunday, March 07, 2004

Notes on technochinoiserie

Twenty four ninety-degree angles gridlock to obscure gelid eyes intent on gentler curves. But who cares if no one remembers Hector Guimard. Yesterday a drip of red ink on watery paper shot down his femural artery, undulating past many white blood corpuscles as he looked into shards of mirrored mosaic.

Across the boulevard, east meets west. Raw silk made from celadon worms mask the worn-out squares Hans Hoffman pushed and pulled back and forth by himself. Yet flat is flat no matter how far from the Black Mountain. So does anyone besides the forgotten craftsmen really know how to reconstruct a reasonable facsimile? The old wooden model is rotted from too much sun and too many tears and will not last the winter.

Head back to the savannah and ask him to teach you a newer way. It is our only recourse.