by Phong Bui
Almine Rech, Paris | April 21 – May 26, 2018
I vaguely remember Picasso whispering to Casagemas,
Social conservatives deprive themselves the pleasure of
Fumbling, stumping, bumbling, wobbling, wavering
Through the magic of “la fée verte.”
Spatial disequilibrium teeters the body from its inner ear,
The Body is an Ear! Take my hand,
Walk gently across this slippery terrain,
An orchestra of prodigious social characters
Here to rebel, against conservative agendas?
Yes, without pointing fingers.
Someone clucks in one corner what, Who, What, When means
Which, why, and where language often fails to describe.
The imagination—reality does not interest him whatsoever!
She, in the opposite corner, mumbles,
Your imagination does not stand straight like
How we were taught as children in earthy paradise.
He, “I have no sense of humor.”
“Try to stick your index finger,” she says “in between
Your sternal ends, ah, in Roundabout ways.”
Pow! He, “I feel like a stoutly Balzac in Rodin’s hands
About to fall off the pedestal.”
Tickling gravity, softening a perpendicular axis in
Equal Time, “aggressive tenderness,” “Hermetica
Buddhist” aura, shaking hands with Sigmund Freud
Not far from Prambanan temple.
I really dig the “hybrid comic clumsiness” that she’s been
Harvesting unapologetically for quite some time.
It’s a holistic yet synthetic Deep Listening.
Once it’s heard, everyone walks between intervals
Like drunken monkies in Journey to the West.
Echoing the Big Bang with constant mantra,
Like Kali, a force of time.
Serenely fierce, capable of Standing Paw.
Giving birth to mortals of various casts, sizes,
Heights, widths, to-be made, readymade, all
Resting on countless impeccable foundations.
PHONG BUI is the Publisher and Artistic Director of the Brooklyn Rail.