-knowing just enough about art to be unhappy-

where is the end of the line.

what if we pull back from its width.

what if we piss our pants in the struggle.

should we pull back anyway or say

fuck it.

is the line like the un-line of fickle Renoir

who couldn’t decide where the edge should be
of anything?

christ, how could he manipulate a sealed
tin of french sardines?

Ingres knew something about

what the line can do.

that left arm of Madame Destouches!

that’s a hell of an arm.

it goes on and on, elongated with greater
romance than Plastic Man’s arm!

Madame's left arm pulls your eye clockwise
through a slow-moving oblong to the sitting knee
and the oblong continues clockwise to the right arm
resting upon the backrest of a nicely upholstered sofa, but
with more abstract tension than a taut, hanging man’s rope.

it's enough to drive a non-practitioner crazy.

that said, I like looking at Ingres
and there are books on the shelf so I can turn the pages
to the pictures I want to see whenever I want to see them.

but that doesn’t mean I’ll be happy about it.