The end? The beginning? The great drama, the great conflict. It is the culmination of our lives, it is the destination we have journeyed towards since birth, and we have no idea what it is.
Disaster, death, celebration. What drives us? what defines...
Oops! Bu görüntü içerik kurallarımıza uymuyor. Yayımlamaya devam etmek için görüntüyü kaldırmayı ya da başka bir görüntü yüklemeyi deneyin.
On August 11 1956, renowned artist Jackson Pollack was killed in a car crash on Long Island. Two women, Ruth Kligman, his sometimes girlfriend, and Edith Metzger, Ruth's friend, were in the car with him. Only Ruth survived.
For Edith Metzger
I was wasn't there the day you died, I did not know you, and had you lived, might well have passed you, unknowing and uninterested on any city street.
You didn't know Jackson Pollack- the Cody Cowboy, Jack the Dripper, any more than I did you, but wanted to. Vainglorious perhaps, a little sparkle in a dull unpolished life.
He was always hopeless; Speeding toward the reaper. Spraying like blood, that which was like blood to him.
He, for his demons is eternally remembered, but you? Who recalls you Edith? Your friend who thought the touch of greatness would add some worth to a life too ordinary to recall?
I am ashamed to feel no sadness, only pity. Not for your life, not for your death, but for the certainty that he could as easily have been a singer, politician, or performer, instead of hell-bent for Hades and tossed off on a droplet-covered tree.
In the glorious irony of life, you are the inadvertent artist, unrecognized and unappreciated, serendipitous and syncronicitious, splattered and splashed; An integral color in a final canvas, implicit and overlooked, like the final drop of dew which nature is compelled to form, before she's ready to reveal a dawn, that only she will see.
