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The Mondrian Typewriter- Kasbah Moderne, found on Apartment Therapy
Stacks of Wheat (Chicago Art Institute, 1986)
The sun sets so fast I cannot follow it, Monet said of his stack of wheat series paintings of haystacks in snow and sun. We waited two hours for admission, the tickets crumby in my purse with cheerios and goldfish to keep you from getting cranky. Two years old, young for this. Twenty-five of Monet’s haystacks in a dark vaulted room as if the sun had set prematurely. People had waited longed enough, nudged, not pushed for the viewpoint that made the shadows fall in an arc. Then you fell asleep in my backpack your sweaty blonde head against my long brown braid. After your nap you’d really want to nurse and being two, you’d look big on my lap on one of few side benches in this crowded room. Hayricks and wheat stackings took shape a hundred years ago like little houses with pointed roofs the sign said. Nipples I thought. Erect nipples with brown areolas and my milk will let down if you begin to cry. I feel like crying. The brochure says painting so many is a tour de force, one after another, from dawn to dusk, with his step daughter fetching new canvasses as the sun dribbled down. My feet ache. I hate crowds. My baby is as good as all these golds and pinks, and grays and blues and purples, combined. I need a way out. We exited Monet’s breadbasket through the small north door. Just in time you got your milk. That sun set fast enough. Tricia Knoll Tricia Knoll, an Oregon poet, has obsessions. Writing poetry every day, working to see them published in numerous journals, a chapbook out called Urban Wild, and a book coming out from Aldrich Press in spring of 2016, Ocean's Laughter. Others? Going to theater, running, tai chi, dancing, growing a native plant garden for pollinators and birds. Coming in doors to write more poetry. www.triciaknoll.com Art Criticism A woman as exotic as in a painting by Cézanne stops me in front of an outlandish skyscraper and hands me her cellphone, saying, It’s for you. I don’t use cellphones my ears are sacrosanct maybe that’s too strong of a word but you get my drift. It’s for you, she repeats, getting more exotic in fact, if I may offer some casual art criticism, sexier than anything in a painting by Cézanne. Just this once, I say, compromising on the spot gripped by the irrationality of beauty and a painting come to life. Hello there, I say, and the voice on the other end says, You’ve been zapped and now you’ll disappear, and then I was gone inexplicable as a painting by God or a sketch by the Devil. by J. J. Steinfeld “Art Criticism” from Misshapenness (Ekstasis Editions, 2009) by J. J. Steinfeld, copyright © 2009 by J. J. Steinfeld, and first published in Chiron Review. Used by permission of the author. Fiction writer, poet, and playwright J. J. Steinfeld lives on Prince Edward Island, where he is patiently waiting for Godot’s arrival and a phone call from Kafka. While waiting, he has published fifteen books, including Our Hero in the Cradle of Confederation (Novel, Pottersfield Press), Should the Word Hell Be Capitalized? (Stories, Gaspereau Press), Anton Chekhov Was Never in Charlottetown (Stories, Gaspereau Press), Would You Hide Me? (Stories, Gaspereau Press), An Affection for Precipices (Poetry, Serengeti Press), Misshapenness (Poetry, Ekstasis Editions), A Glass Shard and Memory (Stories, Recliner Books), and Identity Dreams and Memory Sounds (Poetry, Ekstasis Editions). A new short story collection, Madhouses in Heaven, Castles in Hell, is forthcoming from Ekstasis Editions. |
The Ekphrastic Review
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