11/22/2019 0 Comments JOYCE TREMAINFREDERICK POLLACKIn 1947, a few sprigs
of freshly-bloomed forsythia; dark leaves, their container and species unclear; white petals in an orange, wide-mouthed kettle; some blue amidst brown shadows on a vase. Nothing Cubist, but everything is “foggy” (I said as a kid), receding borderless into a lighter green. Your reputation peaked early. We’ve taken down the Max Kahn cats, black and white, drinking milk. It barely fits under the stairs. You look good on the new beige paint, which looks good in most lights on the wall, which looks fine, cracks re-plastered, holes from old hangers filled.
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