Saturday Night

[nightdog_barks]

Here's a W.S. Merwin poem from the May 16th issue of The New Yorker.



Turning

Going too fast for myself I missed
more than I think I can remember

almost everything it seems sometimes
and yet there are chances that come back

that I did not notice when they stood
where I could have reached out and touched them

this morning the black shepherd dog
still young looking up and saying

Are you ready this time


~ W.S. Merwin

Comments

[blackmare]

In other words, forget smelling the roses. Stop and pet the Chango.

[nightdog_barks]

Something like that. Heh, this is really one of Merwin's most accessible poems of late. A lot of times when I read his stuff in The New Yorker it's like ... "I'm sorry, what?"

[blackmare]

"I'm sorry, what?" was my response to the majority of the work on display tonight at the Soap Factory, too.

One of the installations was a little wooden shed-type building with some mirrors on the walls inside, and it was dark in there and one wall had a projection screen.

What was projected was a black-and-white film, apparently shot inside this same little shed, with industrial/creepy music (some kind of ghastly distortion on the lyrics made them incomprehensible and horror-flick-like). The only thing that happens in the film is that this girl, presumably the artist, flails and dances around with what appears to be a photo-studio light. A light, on a metal rod. And her dance, and the light, reflects in the mirror.

I was in there with Mr. & Mrs. Museum Director, and we all walked out at the end going, "Uh, okay. I don't get it."

And you know, there's something kind of comforting about it when the director of a museum of 20th century art doesn't get the same thing you don't get.

My favorite things in the show were a pair of long, hanging, vertical lamps made out of cardboard egg cartons. The way the cartons were cut, they created a sort of Moroccan pattern of light coming through, and the texture was really visually appealing. If there was a deeper point being made, beyond that, I don't know what it was, but I liked looking at those.

[nightdog_barks]

That's most of the reason we didn't care at all for the Walker Art Center -- when we visited, it seemed every room had something ... meaningless in it. Wooden chairs, lying on their sides. Empty boxes, some stacked, others just sitting. I can't remember what else. I'd been prepared to love the Walker because I'd heard so much about it, but just no.

I have seen a few very good pieces of installation art ... I think there was something at the LACMA when we were there that I sat and watched for a while, but I can't remember what it was now.

[takes_a_fairy]

Heh! What Mare said. :)

[nightdog_barks]

It's a nice one. :-)

[damigella]

Was this really a poem about dogs? Because it reminded me of a recent meeting with an old friend, and the sadness in his eyes when he said "I'm just sad we never shared a slice of life together. It wouldn't have worked, but I wish we had tried."

Some chances do not come back; he would be ready this time, but it's too late.

[nightdog_barks]

:-)

Nope, not really a poem about dogs. A poem with a dog, but not about a dog. My reading was "Yes, there are chances still out there if you have the courage to reach for them."