Tag: Clement Greenberg


by on Oct.09, 2012

I have a dirty secret that is literally dirty; it is surface, all substance, and maybe nothing substantive. It started when I was a toddler and my parents bought a massive abstract painting that hung in the living room of every house in which I lived until I hit double-digits, a bloodbath of teal and peach with pollock-style pitch splattered all over it. It was the first painting I ever saw, hated, and loved.

It started with Clement Greenberg and followed me around the Lower East Side when I moved to New York and spent mornings chainsmoking and writing poems on the walls of grocery stores with oil sticks when I had stayed up too late writing and woken up too early, everyone else in the apartment sprawled out on settees clutching copies of Baudrillard. Like most things that really happen to me, it sounds made-up, and overly romantic.


Recently I woke up in a bed and spent the morning looking at pictures of the light in Marseilles. Plus, my best friend just came back from Paris; she went to Gertrude Stein’s salon and was visited by Toklas’ ghost.  We spent her first day back in our own New York salons, exchanging new paintings, new poems, changed perspectives from a week of solitary cigarettes in different fall rain. When she came back it got dark too early for the first time and we went crepuscular in the pursuit of a new emotion.

Alice B’s ghost visits Stephanie Berger at 27 Rue de Fleures


Where is the Art of This Century?
(continue reading…)

Comments Off on WHERE IS THE ART OF THIS CENTURY? :, , , , , , , , more...