“Wo es war, soll ich werden”
Word count: 205
Paragraphs: 7
Let’s bring it all back home. I am eighty. It is the end of the trail, the evening of the day and I watch the children play.
Very early I had a soft spot for Jean-Paul Sartre, Nausea, a French book in a German speaking town. Later I was impressed by the passage from existence to class struggle. Also, some people are able to refuse the Nobel (although as Erik Satie said, speaking of the Légion d’Honneur, the trick is not to deserve it). I might have been dreaming about a White Christmas or a Winter Palace, but these were dreams.
I don’t want to get into Steven Parrino’s necro thing or Sherrie Levine’s endgame situation, but yes, it’s the economy, stupid.
It might have started with David’s friend in his bathtub (some would rather go to a chapel in Padova). It might have ended in Ornans and started again on the grass, with apples, and on a Barcelona street. Ended in Moscow. Re-started in New York (after the war). Went on through structures, the spectacle, deconstruction and simulation in Soho, the East Village, Chelsea, and now lower Broadway.
So, young empty-handed painter, tangled up in blue, just don’t look back.
Thank you Bob,
Olivier
Olivier Mosset was born in 1944 in Bern, Switzerland, and lives and works in Tuscon, Arizona. Mosset's work is in the permanent collections of MoMA, New York; Rubell Family Collection, Miami; Kunstmuseum Bern, Bern; Musée d’Art Moderne de la Ville de Paris, Paris; MAC - Musée d’Art Contemporain, Lyon; Le Consortium, Dijon among others. Olivier Mosset represented Switzerland at the 44th Venice Biennale.