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| "Head of a Woman," Pablo Picasso, 1909 |
I rarely pay much attention
to the surface—
A master key to the secrets
of my art,
Everything in flux and in question,
What about this, and this, and this?
The ceaseless torment
of five thousand paintings,
Loss, anger, mourning—
Voids the shapes accommodate,
Each generation swept up
In an age of cascading uncertainties,
Consider me, then, dearest shape,
your sculptor.
—A found poem, phrases from a New Yorker review by Peter Schjendahl.
