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Blog

Rachel Malde

   birdsonwires : 
 
 Michael Goldberg,  Sardines,  1955, oil and adhesive tape on canvas Smithsonian American Art Museum 
  Why I Am Not a Painter  Frank O’Hara  I am not a painter, I am a poet. Why? I think I would rather be a painter, but I am not. Well,  for instance, Mike Goldberg is starting a painting. I drop in. “Sit down and have a drink” he  says. I drink; we drink. I look up. “You have SARDINES in it.” “Yes, it needed something there.” “Oh.” I go and the days go by and I drop in again. The painting is going on, and I go, and the days  go by. I drop in. The painting is finished. “Where’s SARDINES?” All that’s left is just  letters, “It was too much,” Mike says.  But me? One day I am thinking of  a color: orange. I write a line about orange. Pretty soon it is a  whole page of words, not lines. Then another page. There should be  so much more, not of orange, of words, of how terrible orange is and life. Days go by. It is even in  prose, I am a real poet. My poem  is finished and I haven’t mentioned  orange yet. It’s twelve poems, I call it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery I see Mike’s painting, called SARDINES. 

birdsonwires:

Michael Goldberg, Sardines, 1955, oil and adhesive tape on canvas
Smithsonian American Art Museum

Why I Am Not a Painter
Frank O’Hara

I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,

for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
“Sit down and have a drink” he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. “You have SARDINES in it.”
“Yes, it needed something there.”
“Oh.” I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. “Where’s SARDINES?”
All that’s left is just
letters, “It was too much,” Mike says.

But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven’t mentioned
orange yet. It’s twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike’s painting, called SARDINES.