What a lucky person am I, or what? (I love that peculiar expression!) Last night with friends, friends I really like, but I guess one likes all one's friends, otherwise they wouldn't be that, right?
Skip the overblown punctuation, lady...
Right, so start over, SO we went to the St. Luke's orchestra series of concerts, AND there was Mozart, one with a HORN VERY LOUD so you couldn't hear the other instruments, and Ingram Marshall, if that is it, don't have the program here, incredibly beautiful, born in 1946,one of those pieces that ends with a very very faint pluck on the cello, enough to make you roll over and say:
Please could you do the whole thing AGAIN, please?
and then today to the Met Museum for the Stein collection AGAIN - and me all excited because of Matisse's 1902 Chocolate Pot, and Picasso's 1902 Soup,and I just wrote to the editor of my FORTHCOMING, yes, MODERN ART COOKBOOK, who is sending me a spreadsheet tomorrow or Tuesday, of His Selections, but how I long to have those in it... well, I wrote that I would love to have those in it. Reaktion Books, and it will have still lives AND recipes by artists and poets AND texts I choose from here and there ANDI get to write an introduction I am calling "Reading in the Kitchen"...
and tonight to hear Rosanna Warren and Jonathan Galassi read from Montale, oh, that is very wonderful
AND I hope to take a Whole Year Sabbatical because a semester feels very very short
how fortunate one is (I is) to live HERE in New York!
Showing posts with label Stein. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Stein. Show all posts
Thursday, May 3, 2012
Monday, April 23, 2012
listening
how about slowing down and listening -- my husband is playing the piano and that is part of why I like hanging around here and not going off some place to write something or other, which in principle is what I most love after everything else I love, which is a lot
like seeing friends: today Maureen Howard -- a superb writer -- and Mark Probst, one of the driest wittiest wits I know and also a writer, and last week the poet Grace Schulman -- now there's a terrific poet all right (and I am thinking of Gertrude Stein writing on Juan gris, and saying about him he is always right all right, and how the hinge works in her writing and
ok so I am going to go to my writing place and do that,
BUT on the other hand I just might stop somewhere, have a coffee and read something -- right now about Stieglitz and O'Keeffe, but she comes out well and he doesn't in this bio (Benita Eisler) and I am glad Brenda Wineapple has made it into the Academy of Arts and Sciences, another really super biographer
and will I write a book about Jon Schueler and not just this Sky Song piece I just wrote about him for 499 Park, which comes up for me because of Stieglitz's place at 489 Park,
but also Reverdy is always on my mind... how not? Even now that my beloved Pat Terry isn't with us -- I will publish our
Reverdy with our names as co-editors, in her honor
like seeing friends: today Maureen Howard -- a superb writer -- and Mark Probst, one of the driest wittiest wits I know and also a writer, and last week the poet Grace Schulman -- now there's a terrific poet all right (and I am thinking of Gertrude Stein writing on Juan gris, and saying about him he is always right all right, and how the hinge works in her writing and
ok so I am going to go to my writing place and do that,
BUT on the other hand I just might stop somewhere, have a coffee and read something -- right now about Stieglitz and O'Keeffe, but she comes out well and he doesn't in this bio (Benita Eisler) and I am glad Brenda Wineapple has made it into the Academy of Arts and Sciences, another really super biographer
and will I write a book about Jon Schueler and not just this Sky Song piece I just wrote about him for 499 Park, which comes up for me because of Stieglitz's place at 489 Park,
but also Reverdy is always on my mind... how not? Even now that my beloved Pat Terry isn't with us -- I will publish our
Reverdy with our names as co-editors, in her honor
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
everything at once
It somehow seems more exciting to me to do several things at once: nothing gets done as deeply perhaps as it might, were I to be solidly committed to one thing at a time, but there it is, and here am I, early morningish, translating a Rene Char passage on Goerges de la Tour for a poet-painter friend, doing an outline for an essay on Andre Breton and Rene Char for a new Princeton reader for the "general public," preparing (or not really) a talk for tomorrow night at Hollins University in Virginia,
and the catalogue essay for an Andre Masson exhibition -- and, oddly, each under or overtaking seems to nourish the others.
That's an early morning, optimistic view, I well know. And next week for my seminar on Letters and Lives, I have to think about WHAT exactly is so moving and so essential about Van Gogh's letters to Theo his brother -- yesterday we tackled, well, discussed, the letters of Proust and some of the various pieces and books written around him, like Richard Goodkin's more than thought-provoking Around Proust. It goes from Bergson and Mallarme to Wagner and film and everything else: I can't even pretend to read enough of anything, but perhaps a suggestion works as well as a whole massive entity. I surely hope so.
AND i was just invited to participate in the defense of another dissertation in Paris, where I really do love going, always staying in the same hotel if not with my beloved friends, always breakfasting in the same cafe, often dining in the same place -- all in a small radius. And this time, I will go to meet the wife of Gherasiim Luca, a Romanian surrealist poet whom I've been translating, thanks to Rainer Hanshe and his new publishing house. Before that, though, many other talks, including one on Gertrude Stein and literary cubism, whatever that turns out to be.
and the catalogue essay for an Andre Masson exhibition -- and, oddly, each under or overtaking seems to nourish the others.
That's an early morning, optimistic view, I well know. And next week for my seminar on Letters and Lives, I have to think about WHAT exactly is so moving and so essential about Van Gogh's letters to Theo his brother -- yesterday we tackled, well, discussed, the letters of Proust and some of the various pieces and books written around him, like Richard Goodkin's more than thought-provoking Around Proust. It goes from Bergson and Mallarme to Wagner and film and everything else: I can't even pretend to read enough of anything, but perhaps a suggestion works as well as a whole massive entity. I surely hope so.
AND i was just invited to participate in the defense of another dissertation in Paris, where I really do love going, always staying in the same hotel if not with my beloved friends, always breakfasting in the same cafe, often dining in the same place -- all in a small radius. And this time, I will go to meet the wife of Gherasiim Luca, a Romanian surrealist poet whom I've been translating, thanks to Rainer Hanshe and his new publishing house. Before that, though, many other talks, including one on Gertrude Stein and literary cubism, whatever that turns out to be.
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