Nature Studies - Excerpt

There. Now, what answer do you have for him, reader? He is dead, of course, since he is a figment of your imagination, so don't actually touch him OK? Through this supercharged and, for some reason, smoky atmosphere I stroll with Mondrian - like some Stoic philosopher with his rapt pupil. Mondrian smooths back my hair in an attempt to make it lie flat (just as a mother will ruffle her son's hair after a haircut - to make it look more natural). He picks a shred of tobacco from his upper lip as we stroll along through his madness. My sinister dream breaks in on myself in mid-conversation with Mondrian:

"That is why I have never believed that the New Plastic artist can have his works executed by others, by nonartists, as LeWitt does," I am saying.

"But LeWitt looks upon those persons as artists," he replies. "I never said mine was the only way. Look at Weiner: words belong to everybody, so is he making their art, or are they making his?"

in the midst of all the hell, I wipe my forehead and say, "You know, all the same, this is a wonderful conversations we are having. And what a lovely evening!" I cry, in a rush of enthusiasm for life malgre tout.

"And what about the architect?" he pursues. "Doesn't he produce art through others? And what about writers such as Ryskamp? That clown rips passages - whole sheets (they are sitting there in that famous manuscript which this idiot reader who is horning in on us, is about to read about!) - out of other authors (not to mention, out of context) in order to pad this book and titillate the jaded palates of these same, nodding lecteurs."

I find no answer to this. "You shouldn't say bad things about Ryskamp; I know him, Horatio," I venture nonetheless, "and am quite well - disposed toward the boy. And anyway, architecture is different from painting."

"The more painting appears as the new chromoplastic in architecture, the more it will merge with architecture." And as he unfolds this sentence, he progressively fades away until, when he reaches the end of it, he is gone. For a moment, albeit a briefer one than the one above, I, too, look at you, reader.